


FIRE IN HER MOUTH

by veridium_bye



Series: FIRE IN HER MOUTH [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Mage Rights, Mages and Templars, POV Multiple, Slow Burn, Uneasy Allies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-08-19 21:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 91
Words: 426,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16542455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veridium_bye/pseuds/veridium_bye
Summary: The woman known in the histories as Lady Inquisitor Olivia Sinclair, Herald of Andraste, and the Black Dove of Orlais, is an evocative figure depending on who you ask. It isn't hard to be confused with what remains of her histories: letters, recorded tales, testimonies which both exalt and admonish her. A heroine who's hands were just as stained as they were blessed. For as controversial as she was, her mark is impossible to wash. What follows are the synthesized stories of her Worship's life, collected and tracked for the purpose of one narrative. Whether scholars and readers affirm or deny these findings is not the goal of this author's work. It is to tell the truth about a woman who vexed empires as one of the most powerful leaders and Mages to ever live, and then vanished.





	1. Cleansing Fire

**Author's Note:**

> "Some women are lost to the fire,
> 
> Others simply become it."
> 
> R.h. Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia recollects the inception of her new life as the Herald of Andraste while camped in the Hinterlands -- the first official mission for her, and her allies, as agents of the Inquisition. Beginning to feel out of sorts with her sense of self, she looks to an old routine for solace in uncertain times.

****

PROLOGUE: 

_It was never supposed to be this way._

If she had just done what Veronica told her to, and remained in that small little port city with Naomi whilst she went after their wayward friend. If she had only done as she was told. If she had only followed direction. If she could just listen and remain in place for once, not questioning why or how she was to be still whilst the world spun around her to the most disconcerting song.

Disobedience would make an example of the girl named Olivia.

But first, it would have her awake in an ashen, dusted prison cell chair. Surrounded by guards with their faces in the dark. It reminded her of old ghosts long gone and terrible. The pang of heaviness and soreness in her head and neck, the way they anchored her eyes to the floor. The rigid fit of her coat and pants, the wear and tear in her boot soles that calloused her heels.

And then, the anchor in her left hand popping like a flare. The nerves in her arm going wild in reaction, the way it contended with the magic in her body. _What is this? How did I survive?_

Then, the most brusque entrance of a furious Seeker and a pensive redhead Nightingale, arms of the now lost Divine. The one called Cassandra seared a glare into her own eyes, as if she were the world’s one detestable regret. Olivia played poised in the face of it, but not put-together in any way. All she could think to pine for, was where her sisters where. Not friends, not fellow rogues, not fellow Mages, but sisters. Thinking the insinuation of blood relation would gather more attention. They were of no concern, though. The rift in the sky, the boon of the world, took precedence over the lives of Rogue Mages -- one of which wasn’t even supposed to be there.

The mountain air was harsh and unforgiving, a degree beyond the chilled countryside of the Fereldan midlands, and definitely worse than the temperateness of the Free Marches. She missed the first land she ever knew to be home during days like these -- the warmth of the summers and mildness of the winters, the weather she was born and brought up in. Her toes steeped in fertile soil. Nothing could grow here, save for cataclysms and frost. Nothing could grow here, not like home.

As she hiked up the mountain with her interrogator-turned-guide, she could feel the un-rested mana in her bones vibrate. She had agreed to help, no matter what it took; but what could a malnourished and over-extended Mage really do when they said 'no matter what it took'? Something in her compelled her to with the idea being that a Mage subservient was better than a Mage executed. As the Seeker explained what had happened, all they knew at least, she tried to no avail to remember her part in it. For some reason, where there was the assemblage of her memories, there was a black, blank space. Everything between landing in Haven with Veronica and waking up in the prison was missing without a trace, as it cut with a precise knife from a tapestry fabric.

How was she to know she would be called criminal and have no way of knowing as to her true guilt? It was like negotiating with no one but your own conscience.

When they had made it to the valley which had quickly become demon infested, Olivia was faced with a choice. If she was to continue, she would have to pick up the weapon she had hid and left behind in favor of survival. As she stared back at it across the ice where they had fallen from the bridge explosion, even in the hurry of the moment she found herself spinning with thoughts.

_If this is where I pick a weapon back up, so help me, I will never forsake it again._

And so, faced with the impossible, she reached and gripped onto the staff once and for all, to cover for the Seeker who proved a most complicated kind of ally to have.

“Drop your weapon! Now!” she heard her command after the demons had been slain.

She smirked, blowing stray tousled strands of her hair from her face as the mountain air blew between them. “Seeker, you believe me defenseless even without this?”

The Seeker’s conflicted face gave way to a concession. She couldn’t be expected to traverse the mountain without proper weaponry, and the Seeker on her own was not enough to ensure her safety. Olivia hid the fact that she had not picked up a decent Staff in a month, leaving her a bit clumsy and overwhelmed. The last thing she needed was a Mage-weary Seeker to be all the more nervous as to her competency.

Encountering Solas, the Apostate, who in turn revealed the connection of the mysterious anchoring light in her hand. Varric, with his rogue charm and contention with Cassandra’s nerves. Amongst so much disarray, who was she amongst all these figures? Nothing much, and certainly not missable if she had not somehow centered herself in the disaster. If she could only remember what had happened, maybe it would all make some sense: maybe she would know where her friends were, and they would know.

That is, if she hadn’t lost them like the Conclave lost so many.

The most arduous part, though, was the final battle with the demons in the remains of the Temple. The voices coming through, hearing her own echo as if her identity had split into two beings.

_\- What is going on here? Where is Theia?!_

_\- Deal with the intruder._

Olivia didn’t have her comrades to lead the offense, it was her and an assemblage of misfit fighters and troops. She stood by Solas’s side the entire time, desiring to feel some Mana solidarity -- he would later bring it up at Haven, after the fight, and offer to oversee some reconditioning of her powers. But in the moment, she was making do with what she could: her pyromancer’s skills, not used to large exertions from months on the run unless there were too many men to simply fight with dulled daggers.

But she did it -- she helped, anyway. And when the time came, she reached her hand into the rift for one final chance at fixing what had been done. For that, she was deemed a savior where she had been detested. For what, she did not know. 

All she knew was that she had lost what little stability she had managed to muster in her life, and now, it was as if she had stepped into an alternative life, an alternative soul. No one would imagine Andraste, even if her origins were as a Slave in the Imperium, would select a wayward Mage with a secretive past to rectify the world’s wrongs.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was always meant to die. Women like her seduced their demises so they may lay together in an early bedded grave.

What would happen if she awoke instead of perished, and rose to question the crimes of mortals complicit in their fall? 

\--

****

CHAPTER ONE: 

Olivia meditated on memories often these days. The echoing voices of degradation from those in the Haven’s Chantry, seeing the likes of someone such as herself walk into its Halls under the pretense of being Andraste’s hand-chosen heroine. It was the early morning hours in the Hinterlands -- a region she had seen before, passing through and looking for resources to scrounge up. The trails reminded her of her companions, and the campfire bittersweetly comforted. Still, sleep had long left her bed.

Finding it appropriate to do so, she reached into her bag on the ground beside her cot to collect bottles. They were filled with soaps, a recipe of her own that she had managed to put together at Haven. Far from being lavish or even deliciously scented, they did their job, and for Olivia being clean was the one scruple she had internalized from her upbringing that had not shed itself.

The Hinterlands were beautiful in the morning, when one wasn’t terrified of being stalked by its dense bear population. The airy fog surrounding the encampment dancing in the intermittent sunshine cutting through the tree line, the fresh air that had become less condensed with smoke and ash since they had been there to settle the war between the Mages and Templars. The land was scarred, but then again, what wasn’t in these times?

Stretching to her feet, she held the glass bottles to her ribs as she slipped out of her tent. Pulling her cloak hood over her head, she wandered to the embankment edge where the Requisition officer would often stand at station. This time, though, she saw the head and shoulders of a most pensive Apostate elf, seeming to be right at home amidst the nature even in the early morning dimness.

She stepped forward, arriving a few feet behind him before she halted.

“Solas,” she greeted softly, a raspiness in her tone.

Turning to peer back at her, his shoulders broad and untired. “Yes, Hello. I trust the night was restful?”

“I am afraid not. They never are, though. Is something troubling you?”

Solas smirked, his hands relaxed at his sides. “Such an intriguing question to ask of someone amidst these derisions. I suppose the more exceptional question would be to ask what is not troubling to us.”

Olivia raised a brow, too distracted to pick a debate or exchange in clever quips this early in the day. Surely, she would make up for it partaking in their banter as the hiked and cut through the Hinterlands some more.

“You have a point. I was just trying to be friendly, you know.”

“Ah, I see. You have a way with such pleasantries. It is difficult for me to remember there are people who are sincere in their efforts to make good conversation. It is a curiosity as to how this responsibility has landed on your shoulders with the abundance of other...characters,” he remarked as he put his hands behind his back, turning to face her head on.

“I do not blame you. I have been having an arduous time as well. But, what cures all prejudices better than the wilderness and its perils?”

“Yes, but we must remember that the tranquility of nature is often a complicit witness to the most disdainful acts of violence.”

Olivia's heart stilled. Indeed, it could. She would not argue differently. So much for holding onto whimsical optimism in this cold dawn.

“I will remember, Solas. Trust me. I am afraid that for now, though, I must prioritize my memory of being bathed first and foremost,” she smirked as she adjusted her hold on her soap and oil bottles. “I will be just over there in the river, if anyone asks for me. You might have to warn them that they will find me unceremoniously de-robed.”

Solas smirked once more, nodding once in austerity. “Of course. Though, I doubt anyone here will assume I am the one aware of your whereabouts more than others. Especially the Seeker,” he said as he began to walk back to the camp. “Take care, and remember what we have practiced in case danger awaits you.”

Olivia grinned and nodded in return. He was referring to their practice training, the small series of provisional abilities and tactics he had helped her learn in the Haven woods to protect herself in the field. It was a precursor to what she must learn -- heavier, powerful abilities -- in order to survive, but to get there she had to live long enough to become educated and practiced. Scarcely anyone knew of Solas’ tutelage on the Herald of Andraste, and they both preferred it that way -- the last thing either of them needed was flack for being in collusion with one another.

Besides the need for her to improve herself as a Mage, the initial occupation of Haven and her agreement to join the Inquisition in its infancy had proven lonely. Without her friends, without anyone who knew her before her inception as some lackluster idol, she was an eternal anomaly with no grounding in precedent. Was she a kind, doting individual? Was she cold and callous? Did she do all the idle crimes she committed whilst rebelling against the Templars, or was she always an obedient and erudite Circle Mage? The more time went on, the more disoriented she had began to feel.

As she came to the side of the river, dropping her belongings to the ground to free up her hands, she caught a distorted reflection of herself in the water’s surface. The blonde hair her family passed on and coveted, her pretty little face that looked tired and sulken. It wasn’t worth lingering on. Instead, she would focus on the one ritual she clung to from her wanderings: not giving a care as to who saw her nude and bathing in the wild, stripping down past her traveling gear and small-clothes.

Her body in the morning light was a most poignant broadcast of what she had been through. Bruising, scars fresh and healed over, stretch marks come and gone from her fluctuations in her weight. Leaving the Circle which for all its demons fed you well enough -- at least your bruises and injuries were on somewhat supple skin.

Even though she knew it wouldn’t be long before the rest of the allies would awaken and the day’s prerogatives would need further attention, Olivia couldn’t help but sigh and smile as she stepped into the water, diving in to embrace the cold temperature. A light swim would do her good, and if she had something to distract her she could feel like the world wasn’t, in fact, suffocating her from the inside out.

Wading in and out of the water, her hands stretching out in front of her so as to pull her forward, she was thankful that she had the ability to take her own life into her hands and teach herself how to swim. The Circle was stifling for most all outgoing practical skills, but once her and the girls had gotten their big break, she was hungry to learn all that she had been kept from both by being raised as a Lady and then caged as a Mage.

Twisting and turning her body through the water, it was the closest she had gotten to feeling freedom. Closing her eyes, a soft smile on her locked lips as she floated to the surface, even the dull humming and stinging of the anchor felt far away. Letting her legs and arms sway on the surface to keep her above water, she took a breath. The water, for all of its pleasure, was indeed freezing. Goosebumps danced up and down her limbs, her sore muscles straining.

From her hands and legs, the heat of her mana began to seep from her body and into the water. She didn’t need to be cooked alive, but maybe something like a hot spring -- like the ones she came across up north -- would be wonderful right now. She opened her palms wider, and began to raise the temperature of the water higher and higher. Steam began to emanate into the frigid atmosphere, and she felt smug in her satisfaction. Her body began to relax, feeling enveloped in warmth.

This was the good stuff, this was the sweet to the bitter of having magic imbued in your doomed soul. Something no one else could have, or co-opt, or demonize.

Resting in limbo for a few minutes, at last she allowed herself to regain her footing. Standing tall enough for the shallow water to not go past her hips, she untangled her hair from its tethered scarf fabric. Long and coarse, it fell all around her shoulders, covering her bare chest. Tying the thin fabric around her wrist, her attention went to the bottles she had left on the shore. Raising her palms together in unison, she tested her abilities. The glass glowed and the bottles began to float from the ground. She was improving, and she was going to keep doing so.

Now, to get them to come all the way over to where she was in the water.

Her hands gently waved in beckoning semi-circles as the bottles began to float in her direction. Almost there, just a few more feet. But her excitement distracted her focus -- something Solas had warned her about time and time again -- and she felt her grip slipping. Anticipating their break from her hold, she leapt forward with arms extended to catch them before they fell into the water.

Did she catch them first? Fortunately, yes. Did she manage to do so without slipping and falling back into the water, glasses included? Unfortunately, not quite.

Her mouth and nose filling with unprepared for water intake, she quickly stuck a foot in between two slippery stones at the river’s floor and pushed herself up. Gasping for air with her hair plastered to her face, she let out a most unattractive choke. The aura of warmth in the water had dissipated, and now it had become a little less fun for her to be playing Mermaid.

Composing herself, and wiping her hair for the most part out of her eyes and mouth, she spit some more of the river water out of her mouth. Alright, so, notes to remember the next time she tried to levitate and control objects from a distance: do not even think of becoming cocky about it before the task is finished. At least she had clutched her bottles to her chest, keeping them closed and intact. Taking a breath and opening one of them, she poured a generous amount of the hair soap into her palm.

Her hands wrestled with soaked tangles, lathering the oiled soap with rigor. It did not bubble and smell of sweet flowers like she would hope, but such luxuries were not to be born nowadays. Even if she smelled vaguely of animal fat and salt, she would prefer it to sweat and the blood of her enemies any day. Once she had enough of her hair, she plunged herself under the water, running her fingers through the floating thickness of it all to ensure it was thoroughly rinsed. Rising again and exhaling her held breath, she began to rub her hands all over her body with the lingering oiliness from the soap. Cleanliness was next to Holiness, as her Mother would so pointedly say as she poured scalding hot water into her wash basin.

After she had tired of being in the water, she returned to the shore and sat atop her cloak as a sort of blanket. She sat on the shore for a while with her knees hugged to her chest. The river’s horizon line and the wooded surroundings beyond its boundary provided enough to catch her distracted fancy, if only for the potential terrors. Beyond the calmness there were fade rifts, beasts, Templars, fellow Mages, and more which she had not yet encountered -- all eager to see her fall. It had been so long since she had felt the center of such heavy attention. And there she was, no clothes and nothing but her hair covering the more lewd sections of her anatomy. Someone could make a case that she had, in fact, learned nothing.

Her toes twitched as she rested her chin on her knee. Her mana was humming between the endpoints of her limbs and her chest. She would always find her friends meditating like this, preserving their focus in the face of chaos. She never quite got the hang of it, but now, now she felt like an expert. Once again she had Solas to thank. If only she could show her friends just how much she had learned, how capable she was of surmounting a challenge.

But was she, now?

“Maker, oh, shit!” a voice said, shocked and dismayed.

Olivia, not fully apprehending that it was her naked body that was the subject of surprise, turned around to face whoever it was who had stumbled upon her. When she did, she stifled a laugh before constricting her legs tighter against her chest.

“Oh, Scout Harding!”

Harding, who had went out for a brief look at the perimeter of the camp for safe keeping, held her metal-clad forearm over her eyes as she chuckled with embarrassment.

“Your Worship, I--I didn’t know you’d be out here,” she said, turning away. “Forgive me for intruding!”

Olivia reached and grabbed her top, slipping it over her shoulders and sliding her arms through them like a pro. Once her upper body was covered, she made even shorter work of getting her breeches squared away, rising to her feet and hopping between them as she slid them on.

“No need!” she said as she jumped up and down, yanking the hide-tailored fabric against her still damp skin, “I told only Solas, and he said--well, just do not worry,” she cut herself short, finally clothed enough. “You may look!”

Harding turned again, facing her head on and with a slight blush on her cheeks. Olivia had to stifle a flattered giggle.

“Oh, I, uh -- well, it’s good to know you’re safe. The Seeker is looking for you. I think she’s rather lucky she didn’t take it upon herself to search.”

Olivia smirked as she combed her hair to rest on her shoulder. “Yes, she may have arrested me again for corrupting the morality of the woods.”

Harding chuckled. “I hope not. I assume you will be heading back. Let me know if there’s anything you need, or else I’ll go back to scouting the boundary.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. And, uh…” Olivia grimaced a bit, “can we keep this between us? I would hate to think people would know where to find me naked.”

Shrugging her shoulders and holding her arms in the air, Harding nodded cordially. “Your secret’s safe with me, Your Worship. Though, as someone who grew up here, let me just warn you: bathing women never go unnoticed for long.”

Olivia placed her hand on her own cheek and laughed softly, clinging to the cotton fabric tightly across her chest with her forearm. She was right -- perhaps such sights were never meant to be discrete. There was a reason there were so many illustrious scenes in classic literature of beautiful women, muses, bathing and enjoying the water. Though it tickled her to imagine just how dismayed her allies in the Inquisition would be if she became the latest focus of such artistic tastes.

“Fair enough. Thank you, I will be returning to camp at once.”

The smoke from the campfire breaking through the tree line told Olivia that the day’s operations were very much underway. Putting on and buttoning her coat as she walked her way back, no one would know that she had been so undone just ten minutes prior.

There was the main tent centered by the fire pit, not large but just enough for several people to stand among one another for discussion. There, she saw the Seeker dressed in her full armor ready for the day to unfold its dangers. Beside her was an Inquisition scout, talking as if they were giving a report. Varric sat by the fire making adjustments to Bianca’s mechanics.

“Good morning,” Olivia said to him as she approached, yanking the hem of her coat to modify the fit.

“Morning, firefly,” he said as he cocked the safety on his crossbow. “Had an early start?”

Olivia smirked, standing in front of the fire and leaning onto one hip. “Yes, I went for a walk to stretch my sore muscles.”

Varric eyed her, just in time for a drop of water to fall from the tip of her hair and soil her shirt some more. Fantastic. He chuckled under his breath as he set his crossbow to the side of the bench, learning over on his haunches.

“Sure, and Andraste was a haughty brunette,” he teased in return.

“Varric, surely it’s too early for you to start teasing me again.”

“You got me there. You just give me so much material,” he winked, then and sat up. “The Seeker has been asking for you. Don’t worry, she won’t be as observant as I am. You could probably tell her you went for a ride on a Great Bear and broke bread with the Arl.”

Olivia shook her head as her gaze turned toward the Seeker one more time. Now, she was bent over the table, studying the map with precision as she always seemed to do. Their first official Inquisition mission together, and she had proven herself good at two things: wielding a longsword, and staring down maps.

“Very well. Until later,” Olivia nodded to Varric before meandering over to the tactics tent.

The air quieted as the Scout took their leave, Olivia seeming to be the cause for dismissal. Cassandra leaned up off the table, gathering her arms behind her. No time was to be wasted on pleasantries.

“The Horse Master is due northwest. If we are to make contact and establish an encampment, we should do so today,” she said as she made eye contact.

Olivia folded her arms, pensive as she scanned the table. Tactician skill was not her strength, nor was it her interest. Cassandra and Leliana had proven to be two intimidating women in that regard -- it was difficult to be asked questions when she felt they held all the answers.

“Very well, but may we also continue efforts to aid the refugees? I asked the Lieutenant by the crossroads for an inventory list and he should have sent one along by now.”

“He did. They have been marked on the map, they are possible sites of Apostate supply caches.”

“Good, I want to secure them personally.”

Cassandra tilted her chin, her eyes narrowing a bit. “We do not have much time to spare here before we must travel to the Capitol. Are you certain we will be able to scout the supplies and find Master Dennet, considering all that has remained unscouted in this region?”

Olivia could have easily let herself be consumed with the self-doubt that Cassandra’s discerning glare inspired in her. Throughout all of the uncomfortable growing pains of being an Inquisition agent and harbinger of Andraste’s will, Olivia had managed to maintain a steady course of virtues. Finding the refugees along with Mother Giselle, she had committed wholeheartedly to helping them rebuild and sustain themselves.

She took a step towards the map, noting all the question marks and crossed-out words with revisions. Danger here, dead end there, possible fade rift everywhere. The area of countryside where Master Dennet was alleged to be hiding out from the demons and wolves was mainly under-Scouted farmland. She reached and placed a finger on the nearest marked area where a cache of supplies was thought to be hidden.

“This is, what, several miles from where they think him to be?” she asked, raising a brow a bit.

Cassandra followed the direction of her gaze, nodding once. “Yes, indeed.”

“Good. Can we start there, then?” she asked as her finger traced to the marked cache closest to the camp they were currently in, “and form a path from here to that cache close to them. That would bring us there at sundown, no? It will not be all of them, but it will be something to tide them over whilst we expand our search and Scouting.”

Cassandra leaned back a bit in her shoulders, taking in the proposed plan. It was simple, a bit unsophisticated, but it was a compromise.

“Very well. We should leave as soon as possible, then, if we are to spend the majority of the day searching in uncharted territory.”

Olivia backed away from the table, her eyes a bit wide. She did not think it would be so easy to convince her, but when she conceded, suddenly she wondered if it was the right thing to do.

“What do you think?” she asked with a bit of nervousness.

Cassandra furrowed a brow. The kind of way that made someone instantly aware of all they lacked. Olivia was young, not in an egregious way, but just enough to where her mannerisms alluded to a sense of insecurity that came with lack of experience. That, and her being kept in such a conservative and distant Circle as the one at Ostwick, made the Seeker concerned as to how steady she would be in the face of new, fraught experiences.

“I would commit to finding the Horsemaster, but I also understand we are here to gain influence for our voyage to the Capitol. We must expend energy on both fronts, if we are to fortify ourselves.”

Olivia’s jaw tensed, hearing the slight divergence in Cassandra’s perspective made her doubt her choice. However, it was then she remembered the way the villagers looked, hungry and worn out from trying to survive. She looked like them not too long ago. Even if it wasn’t the most calculated option, her desire to be benevolent prevailed.

“Thank you, Cassandra, for your input. I will reflect on it, but, it is my wish to do as I have requested.”

“Of course. I will have us ready to depart,” Cassandra said as she stepped away from the table, her shoulder narrowing in on Olivia’s as she made her way through the opened tent curtain. Olivia peeked as she moved past her, feeling a mixture of intimidation and self-consciousness. Cassandra did not meet her stare, but it was probably for the better.

Olivia did not need someone standing too close to her, to see into her eyes, and perhaps a glimpse at the truth of what stirred inside of her.


	2. Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning to Haven for a brief time, Olivia prepares for the upcoming voyage to Val Royeaux -- and the first return home for her in many years. The mystery around her estrangement from her Imperial origins begins to be chipped away at.

The return to Haven was not to last long -- the Capitol being the principal priority that laid ahead of them. They needed only a few days to recover before they were to set off on a voyage of both land and sea. That meant a return to her origin as an Orlesian daughter -- something so vast and complex in consequence that Olivia spent the majority of the time in Haven in denial. If Orlais, if the Capitol, was truly nothing to her now as it had been for years, she would manage such a mission rather easily, right?

Even though Haven was still largely uncomfortable, that did not mean an inability to wander or soak in the scenery of the land. When she could she would find spare hours to hike, or practice magic in a small clearing a half mile from the grounds. If she could find somewhere quiet to be simply herself, she would find the strength to get through the day.

The bittersweet fact, however, was that her retreats were not soothing her growing sense of being an imposter to everyone around her. In fact, the dichotomy that she had created for herself was beginning to exacerbate her flight or fight instincts. She told no one -- not even Solas, who had taken to be a tutor most generous with his time -- of her secret fancying of running off never to be seen again. To track down the girls, and be back on the run again like this never happened.

The morning after they had returned from the Hinterlands, having successfully secured both horses and influence to mobilize, she found herself in her own winter escapism again. Sitting on a fallen and mossy log, boot heels dug into the snow. She had been here for the better part of an hour, taking in the stillness of the wilderness around her. The habit of early morning meditation she had fostered in the Hinterlands had transitioned into her new “home.” A foreign notion, to be sure.

When her retreat had worn itself out, she rose and sought her way back. When she could at last see the moving bodies of training soldiers out from the serpentine path at her feet, going through the motions of their morning exercises, she knew she was back.

In betwixt the troop tents the Commander, in a perpetual state of bent-neck and furrowed brow, preoccupied himself with reports. She had scarcely said more than five words to him since their meeting. He was cordial enough, though she did not return his warmth and had no intention to anytime soon. Everything about him wreaked of indulged deprecation. He was hiding a conflict, and she had no interest in evoking it.

Circling around in avoidance, she came across a line of straw men for sparring. A similarly daunting individual was preparing for another round of sword practice, in lighter armor than she had worn out in the Hinterlands. The Seeker unsheathed her weapon and swinging circularly to stretch her gloved hand and wrist. Though they had traveled together, and engaged in conversation when around Varric and Solas to share the responsibility, they hardly ever confronted each other. Well, besides that one time she was in chains and thought to be a mass murderer. Even in combat, sharing a mutual enemy, they had an unspoken code of distance.

Varric had commented to Solas one evening whilst encamped that it felt, not as though they were antagonistic to one another, but rather that they were sizing each other up: perpetually unsure of what the other’s intentions were, but too rigid to simply ask. He said it just loud enough for Olivia to hear from where she was curled up on her cot, tent drape half-open for ventilation. Ventilation couldn't save her from the blushing.

This time, she lingered where she would have otherwise dodged. Sensing eyes on her, Cassandra peered over her shoulder to see the figure for whom she had spent so much time appraising with attempted discretion. Fire in the pit of her stomach simmered when they linked eyes; Olivia was discovered and pinned to the truth of her choice to gawk.

“Is something the matter?” Cassandra asked, likely deciding between curiosity and contempt for the sudden uptick in regard.

Olivia, caught between a rock and a hard place, went to her default: she smiled, and shook her head.

“No, not at all. I was simply in deep contemplation,” she replied.

“And your contemplation required staring?” Cassandra retorted, sword poised at her side. It shined pristine in the bright daylight, clean and well-cared for, like any warrior worth their salt would maintain.

“Sometimes it happens like that, Seeker. A most unfortunate case of awkwardness, I’m afraid. Nothing more.”

“I see,” she said with a tilt of her chin.

Olivia, not one to back down from an indictment of her motivations, advanced herself with selective steps in the caving snow. Folding her arms against her thick coat and vest that insulated her against the cold. “And what of your activities? Sparring to feign productivity?” she grinned as she gestured towards the Seeker's weapon. Cassandra glanced, her hold gently lifting, but with no exceptional flare. 

“Certainly not. Daily practice is a virtue of any warrior,” she remarked. “Ensuring the preciseness of your skill is productive, far more so than anything bureaucratic.”

“Bureaucratic? Like what?” Olivia furrowed a brow, stopping with no more than a few feet between them. Her simple question -- unassuming on the surface, but intentional in purpose -- was one of her trademark rhetorical habits in the face of arrogance. Not knowing Cassandra’s inner workings, it felt as though she had merely become acquainted with another stubborn warrior with a superiority complex.

Cassandra blinked, but her determination prevailed. Or stubbornness, as someone more familiar with her might insist. “Pretending that the nauseating machinations of nobility and the diplomacy they claim to employ, to give one example.”

“Ah,” Olivia nodded, her chin lingering high in the air, “I can understand such opinions.”

“Can you? Are you not Orlesian?”

Olivia's breath caught, but behind closed lips it conceded little. Turning to face the view of the sparring straw men and the hillside beyond them, she embraced the candor. “I am. How did you know? Think me too shiny and blonde to be from anywhere else?”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “No, you yelled in Orlesian when you were imprisoned. That, and Leliana’s insight.”

“I do not usually favor my home tongue. I must have been fairly distressed,” Olivia smiled as she mocked her own perilous circumstances. Her humor was a rare show these days, and only people she trusted to be kind enough. That was a short list.

“It was as if you were being possessed -- had we found you in any other instance, I would have thought it best to end your suffering,” Cassandra admitted rather bluntly, to which Olivia stared with struggling desire to pass herself off as unphased. Her stonewalling must have come off as offense, for Cassandra took a beat to backtrack rather quickly.

“...Forgive me, that was...unnecessary to disclose,” she said as she turned her attention to her chosen sparring target, swinging her weapon once more in a circular fashion as warm-up.

“It is a wonder you have any faith in me at all, with that kind of talk.”

“Faith out of prosperity and faith out of necessity do not always collaborate, as I am sure you are aware of by now,” Cassandra took a calculated swing with her sword, halting just before making brutal contact with the undeserving straw.

“Perhaps neither of them collaborate at all, if one is simply meaning to live day by day.”

“Do you not think people capable of both?”

“Yes, and no. You, on the other hand, appear to believe them inextricably linked. Even if it means beginning a Holy War, dissenting from the institutions you swore fealty to.”

Cassandra stopped her advancing movements, turning once more. Looking back at Olivia with new found fascination, she straightened her posture. “I do as my conscience and faith dictate. Divine Justinia’s wishes were my command, and I am intent on seeing it through to ensure the chaos that has been long festering in the world is resolved. History will answer whether or not I am right to have done so,” she responded astutely, with her faith and virtue on her sleeve. It was the first organic glimpse Olivia had into her innermost character, well, since being dragged halfway up a mountain.

“You converse with the weight of nations on your teeth,” Olivia grinned. She did not have much else to say -- why ruffle the feathers of a bird as if that could change the color and nature of its plumage?

A busied silence filled the air as they gazed at one another, ceding no ground. Cassandra was about to return her attention to her practice, but then her eyes illuminated with an idea. Leaving well enough alone was not in her nature.

“It occurs to me that I do not know much about you,” she remarked, approaching her once more and even sheathing her sword. Olivia was a bit unnerved by the commitment to conversation in that solemn act, but she did not bend as easily as she may have instinctively wished to.

She merely chuckled, the dimples in her cheeks exposing themselves in broad daylight. “Perhaps that is intentional.”

“You qualify certain things as laughable, do you not?” Cassandra commented in light of her laughter.

“No, I simply enjoy laughing. It is such a rare indulgence for most people. Plus, it puts people like you off balance.”

“And who, exactly, are people like me?”

Olivia blinked, her smile softening as she looked away briefly. “People who feel inclined to know about others whilst remaining anomalies themselves. Seekers of Truth, is that not the full moniker?”

Cassandra did not respond, but her eyes narrowing told Olivia she had her answer well-enough.

“Well then, if the name befits your skills, you shouldn’t need me to play story time with my life. All you need know is who I am in front of your eyes.”

“How would that have benefited you if what I saw in front of my eyes was a likely possessed Mage in need of a mercy killing, and believed such?” Cassandra got the nerve to play hard-ball, now, feeling implicated for both her occupation and her intelligence. Olivia was a mystery to her, but one thing seemed certain, and that was she knew how to pry into people’s egos.

Olivia merely stifled a chuckle, again, and shook her head. “You also saw the one person who could perhaps answer for the cataclysm you experienced. And, perhaps, an Orlesian who would aggravate your distaste for manipulation. Who knows, maybe you thought her quite pretty. The past is the past, no?”

Cassandra folded her arms, her face hardening but from the need to save face and not anger. “The past is what guides the present consequences.”

Olivia’s frown grew into a sentimental smile. She did not speak, or respond with another clever deflection. By the way Cassandra fought to hide a kind of nervous fidget in her shoulders and arms, clearly it was far from the elicited response. 

“Do you find something amusing, again?” she asked bluntly, impatient. 

Olivia relaxed a bit, and she closed her mouth, still grinning and glowing as she did. “My friend...she, she would always say something similar to what you just said. It reminded me of her.”

Cassandra stiffened into stone. “Oh. I see,” she offered as a cover up for her self-consciousness. “Is your...friend, alive and well?”

“Remember the part you uttered about not knowing much about me, Seeker? I wish to keep it that way, for the time being.”

Before Cassandra could respond -- or even compose a response in her mind -- Olivia had nodded solemnly and taken her leave, cradling her arms and marching back to the Haven gates. Cassandra looked to her sword again, harnessing the focus and willpower to reconvene her practice. There were more worries to have besides the idiosyncrasies of women.

\--

Walking down the main hall of the Chantry never got easier, even when pacing to and from the Council room more times a day than she could keep track of. It felt out of place and strangely like if she were a small deer wandering out into a meadow with no compatriots to speak of, hoping that they may exist and graze without the danger of hunters. Even when she was greeted by warm faces -- sometimes the most deadly animals greeted their prey with smiles. They did so in her dreams, why not reality?

The Lady Ambassador was proving Olivia’s instincts wrong. Greeting her as she entered through the door to her office quarters, she rose from her chair.

“Greetings, Your Worship. I am pleased to see you. It is crucial that we discuss your upcoming excursion to the Capitol." Josephine made her way around from her side of her desk. Promptly walking to the door and shutting it behind her guest, she turned to face Olivia, who seemed on edge already at the idea.

“I suppose I can’t avoid it any longer, can I?” she returned a grin, coming to stand in front of her table, cradling her arms to her chest.

Josephine smirked. “No, and you should not avoid to begin with. Negotiating our legitimacy with the Chantry requires us to use the influence we have obtained most efficiently. I also wished to speak about it in more candid terms, given that you are, in fact, Orlesian.”

“By birth, not by spirit.” Olivia meandered to a chair by the wall. Taking her seat and criss-crossing her legs into her lap as if she were on the floor and not on a seat cushion.

“I would not be so certain, my Lady, given that Orlesians are known for their instinctive patriotism. You may be surprised what returning to the Capitol could evoke. I digress, though, to the matter of your family. What is your standing with them, if I may ask?”

Olivia’s chest leavened. The Ambassador’s keen eyes on her did nothing to inject ease. Could she tell her the truth? Or was she to lie? How sustainable could that lie be with the eyes and ears of both Lady Montilyet and the Spymaster at her back? This was not a smart war of truths to begin. Though, every suspicious bone in her body was resisting the temptation of honesty. Honesty and survival did not always pair well.

“I...well,” she smirked bashfully, “my Mother is all who survives of our immediate family, other than myself, technically. She and I have not spoken in about ten years.”

Josephine nodded, seeming to be undaunted by such a disclosure. “I see, and do you predict that your relationship is still strained?”

“The last time I saw her I was carrying the train of her ceremonial gown for my Father’s pyre burning ceremony, and then I was promptly packed and sent back to the Circle where I belonged. She and I have differences years in the making, and have been strangers even when I was still their child.”

Josephine’s face softened, and she returned to her chair. Not defeated. Yet, something in the way she moved said suspicions had been unfortunately vindicated.

“I understand, Your Worship. Dynamics within Orlesian families are known for their fickle natures, are they not? That does not mean all is lost, to be certain.”  


Olivia rest her head against the wall. After all these years it still pained her to imagine the marks left on her for all time. That kind of scarring was not consensual, nor was it preambled -- people never warned their children of the harms they would incur by virtue of being born. “Thank you for your compassion, Ambassador Montilyet. It is a most unideal circumstance of mine, and one I do not share with others often. I would appreciate it if it could remain that way.”  


Josephine slanted her head as she took up her quill, certain to write notes to herself advising not to engage heavily with House Sinclair. Raising a brow, she kept a slight grin on her lips. “How do you imagine your progress moving forward given the strenuous ties between you and your family?”

“I do not know. Truth be told, my priority these past months has been to live.”

“Was returning never once an option, given the desperation of your circumstances?” She spoke as if she knew more than what she admitted to. Which, in all likelihood, she did.

“No. Never.” Olivia’s eyes glazed a bit as she looked down to her lap, her hands fiddling with each other as the conversation graded on her nerves. “I would have rather died like an animal out in the wild than return to a gilded cage to live like an artifact for the rest of my days.”

“Was that believed to be the only options at your disposal, my Lady?”

“Yes, without question. I could not have hoped for anything more, not after what I had…” Olivia looked away, off towards the opposite wall. “Not after what I had experienced, and learned, of the way things are.”

_And not after what I have done to stay alive._

Josephine was getting a glimpse at what everyone else could only offer conjecture. It did not take magic to be insightful into the troubles of another person.

“Lady Olivia,” she began as she set her quill down once more, “may I be forthcoming with you?”

Olivia hugged one knee to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly. “Yes, I suppose I thought you were this whole time.”

“Sister Leliana and I understand the dual binding of your family and how your life has unfolded. We also know and sympathize with your experiences being wayward during a most difficult time for Mages in both the Fereldan and Orlesian territories. My concern, if I may be so...attentive, is that you shy from Orlais not because it feels foreign to you now after so many years estranged, but because you remember what it meant for anyone to fall from grace within the strata of the Court.”

Olivia’s eyes widened. It was true -- there were vivid, bitter memories of her indoctrination into society. Though her family was not the highest on the ladder by any means, their proximity to the Court and promised future in the ascension of their daughter put considerable pressure on her to be everything they desired. Only the fates knew what would have happened had magic not severed the snare.

What was the sage wisdom of old? That one could never hope to go home again?

Clearing her throat, she fought the urge to laugh nervously in response. “Ambassador, I…” as she ran her fingers through the spare strands of hair that had fallen around her face, “my upbringing is a sensitive subject, but, I will not let it inhibit my commitment to Inquisition’s reliance on me. You have my word.”

Josephine raised a brow. “The word of an Orlesian is, as they say, attempting to blow out a fire with the breath of a dragon.”

“Yes, well, consider my honor unbound from my heritage in that regard,” Olivia said as she sighed, humoring the Ambassador’s way with words. The two women exchanged knowing looks, the kind that came from a mutual familiarity the beast they were about to tackle. What Olivia still clung close to her chest, though, was the fact that an Orlesian homecoming meant more than sore feelings or estranged family reuniting -- it meant a possible illumination of her crimes and survival tactics for the whole of an Empire to witness. A rogue Mage did not endure with clean, bloodless hands -- even if those hands were doomed to defend the body they belonged to.

What word could she offer then, if not an Orlesian’s, nor of an innocent wanderess? 

“Very well, Your Worship. I hope you will take what I have said to heart,” Josephine concluded, this time insistent that she would return to productivity. Olivia stretched her legs and stood, dusting off her thighs and shrugging a bit.

“For all this trouble, I better have time to steal away to get a chocolate croissant from that bakery on the corner, if it is even still there,” Olivia muttered, stifling a chuckle as she pictured the distant memories of her childhood. Though, her walk down memory lane was promptly interrupted by the sound of a quill scratch on paper.

Alarmed and the sensation of goosebumps at the sound, she turned to stare back at the Ambassador, who had lost focus on her task at hand.

“You would not be referring to Madame’s shop by the docks, would you, my Lady?” the Ambassador asked, her dutiful attention fully surrendered. Olivia turned to face her and smiled. She should have known such a popular bakery would have sustained itself through the years.

“I think so, if it is still called that. I have not enjoyed it in ten or so years.”

“It is very much so. If I may be so bold, if you do find spare time whilst on your mission would you be…” Josephine halted, her speech tapering off as she reminded herself in her exuberance that the Herald of Andraste was not simply around to take bakery orders for her in her down time. As her face dropped slowly, Olivia only maintained her cheerful facade.

“Ambassador, I would love to. Consider it a ‘thank you’ for reminding me how to properly do my hair.”

Josephine’s eyes lit up. The Herald was still very much a stranger to her all things considered, but she was proving herself to be most amiable company. Giving herself one passing moment to be excited, she then rolled her shoulders back, clearing her throat as she returned to her centered aura of diplomacy.

“I, agh, thank you, My Lady.”


	3. Storm Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In transit for the Capitol, the Seeker realizes new facets of the Herald's personality now that she has become more comfortable with being out in the open. The fast-approaching City of Val Royeaux exacerbates new nerves for Olivia as she continues to forge her place and working style. Tensions grow between her and Cassandra, whilst her bonds with others begin to take stronger holds, making her secrets harder to keep.

One could almost forget about the daunting mission ahead when witnessing what the Herald of Andraste was like on horseback. Whereas she had spent the trip to and from the Hinterlands in the supply carriage, shy and unused to traveling in broad daylight so openly, the newly-acquired horses from Master Dennet meant agents could be outfitted with cavalry. When the Seeker and the rest of the allies had heard she had no prior experience, they expected to be slowed down whilst she gained her bearings -- especially since she refused to take provisional lessons from the Commander. The truth, though, unfolded quite antithetical to everyone’s expectations: Olivia embraced the power she felt mounted on a half-ton animal as if she had been born to it.

As they neared the shore of the Waking Sea, Cassandra almost wished she had not exceeded expectations for once. After days of Olivia sending herself out with scouts, galloping and cantering across the countryside like a maiden gone rogue again, keeping tabs on the Herald of Andraste proved more of a headache than usual. Constantly worrying whether or not her horse would come back with no rider, or that a lurking enemy would shoot her down with an arrow or spear, the Seeker was the brunt of many jokes on Varric’s part as he sat atop the bench of the supply wagon, keeping himself gleefully busy with writing notes of the excursion down to compose with more detail later.

Amidst it all the pensive stress, though, was Olivia’s bountiful laughter: reins in hand, hair coming loose from her once tightly-bound up-do, and a smile that could kill with the way it stunned.

At one point, they had come to an incline in the country road where the salted air precluded the shore of the Sea. Olivia was once again nowhere to be found, leaving Cassandra to lead the contingent directly. But, once they neared the overlook on the mountain side down to the scene of seemingly endless water, she heard cantering of hooves encroach up from behind the group.

Weaving through the wagons and foot soldiers, Olivia was riding with one hand now, shoulders back as she arrived at the Seeker’s side. Halting her horse, her eyes widened when she saw the blue abyss shaking and crashing against itself and the land.With a deep breath she refilled her chest and chuckled.

“It is so vast, seeing it in the day,” she admitted aloud, enough for Cassandra and Varric just behind them to hear. The Seeker brought the processional to a halt, holding her hand up by her shoulder. She, herself, was awed by the sight of it.

“It feels so long ago that we were sailing it for the Conclave,” she said, a bit of sorrow lacing her tongue.

Olivia glanced her way as she patted her horse by its withers, taking another smiling breath. “You crossed the Sea?”

“Yes, us and hundreds of members of the Chantry and their people. There was an assembled fleet.”

Varric smirked, shaking his head in amazement. “The Chantry rarely understates its importance, in case you didn’t already get the picture.”

Cassandra glared over her shoulder, adjusting her shoulders and position in her saddleseat. “Protecting the Divine was the priority, Varric,” she said before sighing longfully. “And we failed.”

Olivia took a moment to absorb the view, feeling the tired tensions among the group oscillate on her intuition. As her horse shifted its weight underneath her, feeling a bit hot from the endless exertion she had asked of it, she loosened her reigns and settled into her place at the head of the caravan.

“Are we crossing it, then?”

“We will be, once we travel farther up the coast, so as to have a direct path to the Capitol.”

“I think we should keep to the land. It is nearing spring, there could be a lagging winter storm lurking over the water,” Olivia cut in with her own assertion, seemingly out of the blue. The woman who had enjoyed the journey with a free and unaffected spirit seemed to have opinions now.

Cassandra’s brow furrowed. “We had traveled over the sea for the Conclave, and it was of no issue.”

“Perhaps Firefly is right, and besides, I’m no fan of water looking for trouble,” Varric leaned back against the bench, one hand stretching back along it. Though, secretly, he had seen the way Olivia had disconnected whenever discussion of the Capitol was taking place. He also saw the way she was keeping away from the linear path, seeming to preoccupy herself with exploring the countryside, maybe pretending that they were not going as fast as they were.

“This is ridiculous!” Cassandra, unafraid to dissent, “it will add several days to our journey, at least. And how do we not know the weather will be inclement on land?”

Olivia shrugged as her hands were up in her hair, fixing the mess she had made of the braids and twists. She knew it would add time -- that was the intention.

“You said it yourself, Seeker, that I am Orlesian. Who better knows the faring of travel to the Capitol than I?”

“But you said you have not--”  


Olivia switched into her home tongue, thus proving herself a convenient hypocrite as she asked with habitual fluency: _You do not enjoy the adventure, do you my Lady?_ She then grinned slyly, sticking two pins in the side of her head of wavy blonde strands. Cassandra froze, then, with the exception of her eyes narrowing on her as she watched.

“It seems you are at what we writers would call an impasse, Seeker,” Varric added, chiming in when he knew he was damn-well not helping to soothe tensions. Meanwhile, Olivia had finished tidying her hair enough to place both hands on the horn of her saddle. Her shoulders hunched casually as she stared back at Cassandra with a nonchalant grin.

“Are you only doing this so as to have more time to ride recklessly throughout the countryside whilst your people face the adversities of the road in front of them on your behalf?” Cassandra cut harshly, now, unable to fully fend off the desire to reprimand. Olivia softened, and yet her grin faded into a slight frown. The butterflies of an anxious heart took flight. She took a moment as the comment hardened her, rolling her shoulders back and regrouping in the face of hostility she did not plan for nor desire to evoke within her allies.

“Perhaps I am. You are right, Seeker. We shall sail, if that is what is most pragmatic.”  


“It is.”

Olivia shot a look at her that was met with equal voracity. Their respective wills silently squared up all-too-easily. Where there could have been an argument, though, Olivia merely tightened her reigns and focused the angst elsewhere.

“I am going to check on those at our rear. Perhaps if the pain in mine cannot be resolved, I can alleviate it for others elsewhere.”

Once again giving Cassandra no time to have the last word, she clicked her tongue to signal to her horse, guiding its head around with her one-handed grip on the reigns and spurring it into a lofty canter. Cassandra merely groaned that noise of disgust she was known for. Raising her hand again to signal the group to push forward, she nudged her horse into an energetic walk. The wheels and the feet of those around her following in step.

As they progressed down the decline from the mountain, the fourth ally made himself known, stepping out of the meager tree line and into the dirt-paved path. Cassandra was once again caught off guard by the anomalous nature of the people she kept company with.

“Solas."

“Seeker,” he replied as he approached, barefoot and seemingly in good spirits. “I trust the path has been cooperative?”

“Yes, in fact. Where have you been all this time?” she said as she adjusted her riding gloves.

“Doing as you are: traveling. Though, the path I have taken is much less befitting a contingent of soldiers and cavalry. Perhaps the Herald can describe it more to your tastes when she reveals herself again.”

“The Herald? You encountered her?”

“Yes, she has accompanied me intermittently since after we made it out of the mountains. Our indirect progress meant we could stop and practice her magic, as well as feel for any disturbances that may prelude rifts.”

Cassandra held her breath, her face growing warm. All these days, and Olivia had indeed been working in her own way. Once again her elusive existence in Cassandra’s life had left unhelpful room to judge. Stifling a groan in her throat as she rolled her eyes, Varric’s observance filled in the damned blanks.

“Not a word, Dwarf,” she grumbled as she took back hold of her reins.

“Has something upset you, Seeker?” Solas asked with a grin on one corner of his mouth.

“Not at all. I am fine. We are continuing.”

“As you wish. I will return to my route, if you do not mind.”

“Considering the task you have undertaken with the Herald, the sooner the better. The last thing we need is more obstacles in between here and the Capitol.”

Solas nodded before he unceremoniously took off back into the wilderness, charting ahead of the group. Varric had been grinning the entire time, writing another couple notes down. Cassandra, proven wrong and quick to criticize? Surely that would be the one believable part of this otherwise ludicrous unfolding story.

“Don’t mind me, Seeker. I am simply refreshing myself on some tools of the writer’s trade.”

“Like what, Varric? The concept of the unrelenting antagonist?”

Varric chuckled, closing his notebook as he replied:

“I was thinking of Hubris.”

\--

Even though Olivia’s gambit for land travel was pulled completely out of thin air, as luck would have it, a rather unpleasant storm had settled over the water by the time the Inquisition’s people boarded the small merchant’s ship first thing the following morning. Overlooking the right side of the ship, her eyes were on the smoke-hued clouds before them as her cloak hood danced in the increasingly turbulent wind.

The last time she had been on a ship, it was while she was stowed secretly with the girls far below deck. They had arduously planned to make the great escape from the Free Marches to Fereldan, watching the docks and taking notes on the schedule of loading, unloading, and cargo exchange so that they may pick the perfect time to sneak aboard. When they did, it was an overnight trip across the sea that they did their best to sleep during, mostly to escape symptoms of seasickness.

The cold, though -- the unforgiving cold -- that was the worst.

She had done her best to remain off on her own corner ever since they landed in the small port town. Having assisted and provided company to the troops left her with a sliver of time to herself to recover and recall the journey behind them. That, and the sour taste Cassandra had left in her mouth. 

Arising from below deck where their cots had been secured, Cassandra finally found herself alone and un-hounded by subordinates. Her vigilance found the sight of Olivia’s back across the way. Once again they had taken to operating in neighboring spheres and not directly with each other -- though, this time, with renewed animus. Standing still for a moment, contemplating whether or not she would break the boundary line and concede, she took a breath. Surely, if they were to continue working in tandem, there would have to be some sort of amicable bond. This hand to end before it became too much to overcome.

Garnering the courage she began to approach her, the salted gusts of air hitting her face even through her vest. Just as she was about to be made known by the aching of wood underneath her weight, she was intercepted by the Apostate who had been preferred company for the Herald. As he took his place at her side, a side-view of a smile appeared on the Mage's face.

Cassandra halted and retracted a few steps so that she stood alongside a short set of stairs. She couldn't say why, or for what purpose, she lingered. There was Solas, with his hands behind his back as he engaged in conversation. The Herald shrugging and chuckling, folding her arms. She seemed to pack more animation and energy in her one finger than most everyone else had in their entire bodies.

Defeated in this specific attempt, she ascended the stairs towards the ship’s wheel, to once again take her long-solidified place as an always-willing navigator, for better or worse. She prayed to the Maker for the sake of her pride and dignity that the storm awaiting them would not be so bad as to prove the Herald's prediction correct. Solas, for all his mystique and perceived snobbishness, had found a way to her good side where the Seeker seemed to still be fumbling. It would bother her for reasons she could not articulate nor justify given the shortness of their time knowing each other.

\--

All the while, Olivia had become unconcerned with her and Cassandra’s separate worlds. She was too busy feeling slightly better about her progress in regaining her strength.

“Solas, I cannot thank you enough for being so helpful. I have survived this far because of you.”

Solas looked pleased in his own particular fashion, his eyes moving outward towards the sinister horizon that lay before them. “Even if I had not elected to oversee your practice, Herald, I imagine you would press onward toward your now necessary growth. I am satisfied to have been of service.”

“My silly self cannot seem to stay out of trouble, evidently. We shall see if your investment was the right course of action,” she countered playfully as her arms folded against her chest.

“Indeed, we shall. If you do not mind, I shall retire to my appropriate quarters for the time being. Should you need anything of me, you know where to search.”

The way he looked at her, as if he had been engaging in an entirely separate conversation with everything nonverbal about her, made her uneasy even as she enjoyed conversation. She had taken for granted that his position on the fringe of the Inquisition would insulate her, and it was steadily breaking down the more they had to work with everyone else. The more solidarity became a priority, the less discretion was afforded.

Still, Solas was a genuine attempt at comfort, even for all his distant sophistication. He was the only other Mage within their ranks, and while his nomadic background made him less relative to her experiences in the Circle, sometimes what she needed was to fool herself into believing she wasn’t singled out.

Left to her own devices, she turned her attention towards the sea as she became its captive audience. Her mana stirred the more she focused on the storm. Closing her eyes in order to listen to her body only intensified it. Thunder cracked across the sky, louder on the horizon. In that moment her sensitivity was vindicated: the lightning in the skies preparing to stretch and clap. She began to hum to herself in concert with the reverberations it created within her bones and muscles. In the moment, she belonged to nature. She could almost claim liberation.

How convenient would that be, to become one with a merciful storm before entering the more frightful one on the other side of the sea. Getting to choose what cataclysm she could be lost to was a luxury she dreamed about when nothing else could comfort her in the night.


	4. Daughter Dissented

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition agents finally arrive at Val Royeaux to a most unwelcoming audience of Chantry and Templar animus. Olivia's prejudices towards both institutions are aggravated by their hostility, solidifying her underlying desire to incorporate other allies. A curious visit from Grand Enchanter Fiona fans the flames of Olivia's loyalties. But, before any more toil, the Herald has a promise to keep to the Ambassador.

The streets still smelled the same.

That was the first sense Olivia had as they walked towards the gates of the city center. An hour after that she would still be pondering it -- how could a decade preserve the smells of a childhood? Had Val Royeaux frozen in time? It was rather remarkable. And of course the architecture, and the new buildings she had never seen before. The renovations that most definitely took place over the last decade left some aspects of the City she had been taught to worship unfamiliar to her eyes.

This was the city, though, that haunted her dreams throughout her years in the Circle and on the run. The city that seemed to promise security, but in fact merely offered a different kind of captivity. It graded on her conscience knowing that if the Foxes had ever had a chance to disband, that she may have inevitably found herself here. How would it have been different if she had wandered back a rogue Mage, the lost daughter of a respectable House and name, instead of the Herald of Andraste? Now, she would never know -- and given what her and her allies were welcomed with, that was probably a good thing.

Alas, the events that unfolded when they arrived left her with more to think about besides old times and hypothetical futures.

First, there was the fact that not only had the Chantry steeled itself against the Inquisition’s existence, but they had done so by reinforcing Templar presence. Olivia’s spine shivered like that of a cornered animal when they took the stage in the city square, clenching her jaw to hide it.

The clerics of the Chantry, with their red and white robes beaming in the sun as they sneered at her. The gathered crowd’s eyes on her and the way they looked as if they had expected some obscenely tall and mighty figure, just to be underwhelmed by the look of a smart-mouthed, tactless girl.

“--We say this is a false prophet! The Maker would not send a Mage in our hour of need!”

“I have never claimed to be a prophet. My concern is with the breach, and the doom that awaits us all if we are to stand by and argue these pitiful politics!” she spat back, feeling the weight of the staff on her back more than ever. Whispers and scoffs circulated the grounds, the clerics remaining undaunted. Olivia particularly detested the implicit smugness in their rhetoric. As the Templars took the stage, the cleric promising that they would restore order and peace, she could feel her blood start to boil, and with that, her hands warming.

The silence of death is not the contentedness of peace, she thought to herself.

But, as it turned out, the Templars had their own agenda. Joining the stage only to strike down the cleric, the men led by who turned out to be the Lord Seeker Lucius became front and center. Their armor, red, steel, and protecting their bodies of lyrium and damned flesh, sending Olivia’s instincts into a haywire fever.

“Still yourself -- she is beneath us!” Lucius roared sanctimoniously to his subordinate, whilst the woman fell flat to the ground.

“Ah, yes, violence, such is the Templar custom to disagreement!” Olivia let slip, her Orlesian wit lining with her impatience for the situation. Nothing made her more aggravated that being compelled to sympathize with her oppressors.

“Her claim to authority is an insult, like your own with that insolence,” the Lord Seeker returned to the petulant Mage woman claiming Divine Heraldry. Parting from the stage, he stomped his boots heavily down the steps. Olivia felt this a losing battle, but as Cassandra -- who had scarcely said a word to her all day -- went after her superior, she followed out of begrudged commitment. It was sore timing, because when she did, it was only to witness Cassandra be rebuffed most forcefully.

“...Raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. You should be ashamed.”

Olivia sighed under her breath as she came to stand at Cassandra’s flank, feeling Solas’ and Varric's’ presence behind her.

“You should all be ashamed!” he continued, “the Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the Mages. You are the ones who have failed. You, who would leash our swords with fear. If you have come to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny that demands respect is mine!”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed like a archer would hone in on a target with an arrow. The rhetoric of cleansing, of genocide, the kind she was subjected to for months that felt like an entire lifetime of trauma. In that moment, all stalled judgement on this man had collapsed into ruin. She could almost feel her eyes glaze over with fury.

“There is to be no more conversation. If you are poised to leave, leave, and get out of my sight!”

Varric and Solas turned to eye the back of Olivia’s braided head of hair. The anger and defensiveness roaring from her chest seemed to almost make the ground shake. Even Cassandra, who was frustrated herself, felt leveled in comparison as she glanced at her.

Lord Seeker, on the other hand, was not impressed. Perhaps it was supremacy, or rather ignorance.

“You speak beyond your place, little girl. Must be the hazards of electing to have a pretty doll as your fraud,” he sneered, glancing one last time in Cassandra’s direction. Even as the same subordinate who he corrected interjected, asking if Olivia’s claim was in fact true, the Lord Seeker remained unwavering.

“I will make the Templar order a power that stands alone against the void. We deserve recognition and independence!” he asserted once more, standing squarely in line with Olivia’s position. “You have shown us nothing, and the Inquisition less than nothing. Templars, Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection. We march!”

Without any more words or arguments, the men followed suit after their most unsavory leader. Watching them move on, Olivia could still feel the anger in her chest, but it was paired with a relief that she now had further evidence as to her refusal to humor an alliance with the Templars.

“This is most strange -- Lord Seeker Lucius was always a man opposed to grandstanding. Has he gone mad?” Cassandra wondered out loud, amongst the allies that reconvened together.

“His record is of no concern to me, now. He and the Templars are obviously beyond association,” Olivia resolved as she folded her arms.

“I would not write them off so easily. There are certainly dissenters amongst their ranks if what Lord Seeker Lucius is doing is as radical as he says.”

Olivia turned her head so as to roll her eyes with more discretion, though the gesture was witnessed by both Varric and Solas. Clearly, she had not gone into this situation impartially, but being received in such a way only emboldened her. A rogue, rebel Mage knew better than to feign consideration for the people at the helm of institutions that had a hand in their subjugation.

Cassandra could feel the dismissiveness, even as she had done her best to disconnect from Olivia’s personal style of expression. “Either way, we should return to Haven and inform the others.”

Olivia then faced her again, taking a breath as she tried to shake off the anxiety the situation had caused her. “Give me an hour, please? I must attend to some errands.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened a bit. “Errands? Of what nature?”

“Of a friendly nature. If you do your best to drag me to my home Capitol, I can at least handle some affairs, can I not?” she grinned a bit playfully. Beginning to step away, Olivia knew she was dancing on Cassandra’s last nerve. But, after dealing with being face-to-face with the armor and weapons of those who hunted her, apologies were not in her arsenal today.

It was then as she walked that the arrow shot out from the air, striking the cobblestone beside her feet. Hopping a bit in surprise, she immediately grabbed it, and read the peculiar note attached. A scavenger hunt by the looks of it, with someone or something awaiting them at the end of the line. Olivia was most intrigued, but not beyond humor. She held it out to share as she re-approached her traveling companions.

“It seems we have interested eyes and ears in more places besides the blasted Templar Order,” she smiled.

“An arrow? This could be from anyone, are we certain this is something we should pursue?” Cassandra asked as her chin tilted.

Olivia smirked, tucking the note in the breast of her vest before she made short work of the arrow. Snapping it in half, she noted the craft and wood of it. “Sturdy enough for a Tempest to lace, but not this time. In this instance, it was a messenger. I wish to follow where this leads.”

The Seeker glanced in the direction of the other two allies, both seemingly intrigued by Olivia’s persistence. Varric, shrugging with a smile, let her know she was the minority vote in this case.

“Ugh, very well. But let us proceed with caution.”

Olivia smiled, grabbing the half of the arrow with the arrowhead tip and reaching back, sticking it through her bun of hair. “Wonderful. Let us go.”

“Pardon me,” a voice called out from the columns as the group began to head back from whence they came. “If I could have a moment of your time.”

The woman Olivia turned around to see sent another pang of nerves down into her gut. She knew who she was -- it was hard not to, when you went from Circle Mage to Rebel Mage -- but Cassandra’s announcement of her identity all-but solidified it as reality. Grand Enchanter Fiona, in her Mage’s robes, out in the open air of the Capitol as if such things would be warmly invited.

“Leader of the Mage Rebellion. Is it not dangerous for you to be here?” Solas interjected, stepping forward as he did so.

Fiona, meanwhile, locked her gaze firmly on the Herald of Andraste. “I heard of this gathering and wished to see her for my own eyes.”

Olivia immediately felt sick to her stomach. Suddenly, the life of a rebel and the life of an Orlesian were now colliding right before her very eyes. The self-conscious nerves in her body hummed and stirred, begging for an escape.

“You are shy, I must say, for someone fabled to the Andraste’s chosen,” Fiona commented, a smart expression on her face. “But I also must say you look familiar.”

“Forgive me, my Lady,” Olivia said, clearing her throat, “I am most surprised to see you. It is not an unwelcome surprise, though. I am not sure if we have ever met personally.”

“Hm, I see. Well, then you will probably be keen to what I am about to suggest. If it is help with the Breach you seek, you might look no further than your fellow Mages.”

Olivia shifted her weight from one foot to the other, folding her arms again. “That would have been my ideal choice, if there had been a willingness to communicate with us on your end.”

Fiona smirked. “Now is better than never. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe. Come and meet with the Mages, meet with those I have heard you have struggled alongside before this responsibility took hold of you. I believe it would be most beneficial to both sides.”

Olivia glanced at each of her allies, before returning her gaze to Fiona. “I will strongly consider it, my Lady Enchanter. Thank you.”  
At her graciousness, Fiona grinned broadly. “Au Revoir, my Lady Herald.”

Watching Fiona leave, Olivia could feel release. Though, her fleeting comment as to her background perhaps did the damage enough. Meet with those I have heard you have struggled alongside before this responsibility. Oh, and of course the “you look familiar” comment that was simply the icing on top of the privacy cake.

Rubbing her arm, she made eye contact with the Seeker, the closest person to her physically. Though, she was perhaps the most unideal one after that conversation. Their eyes exchanged uncomfortable expressions, as if they had bumped into one another in the hallway having never touched each other before a day in their lives. It was quickly rectified as Olivia turned away, rubbing her hands together.

“Well, uh, we better get a move on. I have a order to fulfill from the Ambassador, and this arrow isn’t going to return itself.”

\--

The bakery shop still felt the way she remembered it after all these years: quaint, but polished. The famed Madame of the shop had grown older, spending less and less days in-house than she used to when Olivia was a child. Her gregarious presence was missed as she filled the order Josephine had so dutifully passed onto her. As she oversaw it all, she couldn’t let slide that it was perhaps the first time in almost a year that she paid for something with benignly earned money, and not thieved or gained from soliciting her body and charms. The money in her hand didn’t come with salted memories in acquiring it.

All the while, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric stood assembled outside the shop in the road, looking like quite the versatile social circle.

“I cannot believe we are here,” Cassandra muttered as she paced.

Varric chuckled, folding his arms as he stood near the wall. “You brought an Orlesian to the Capitol and you are in disbelief that she would want to find some kind of good to make of it?”

“If I were to travel to Nevarra for the Inquisition’s service, I would not be spending my time exploring every place I knew as a child. This is hardly the time for nostalgia.”

“A walk through the crypts doesn’t sound particularly sentimental, Seeker.”

Cassandra flashed a glare in Varric’s direction, not uncommon but still entertaining to the rogue who had taken note of every time on this mission Cassandra was spurred -- whether outwardly or otherwise -- by this most unpredictable Mage. Deflecting from her look, he turned his attention to Solas, who was busy meandering around in a Circle and seeming to marvel at the architecture of the alley.

“Done!” Olivia’s muffled voice called out as she appeared in the doorway, carrying a box tied with string. Between her teeth was a breaded pastry of some sort, but even then a happy expression was still discernible. As she stepped out, she untangled the string just enough to slide her hand into the box. She then approached Varric, handing out what looked like sweet bread.

“Your order, good man,” she said playfully through the corner of her occupied mouth.

“So they did have it. Thanks, firefly,” he said, taking the bread into his hand and tipping it in her direction in thanks.

Olivia tried to smile more, but she risked losing hold of her precious snack. Turning now to Solas, who had been relatively quiet and disconnected from what Cassandra had noticed, Olivia rushed over pulling another piece of something out of the box.

“They did not have what you asked for, but, I found something close,” she said, handing out what looked like a simple croissant, still steaming from the looks of it.

Solas grinned, taking the piece into both hands. “It is no matter. I appreciate the gesture, anyway.”

Cassandra couldn’t believe her eyes, but she was getting used to it by the day, if that were possible. Olivia couldn’t be pinned to any one persona before she was bouncing off into another one, showing care in one moment and cunning in the next. It was a case of whiplash if you paid attention too closely.

Though, as the Mage looked over her shoulder at the one remaining ally who had not whispered a request into her ear for baked goods, she found herself quiet again. It was then that Olivia finally took the bread out of her mouth, licking her lips a bit before speaking.  
“I did not know what you would like, Cassandra. But, you are welcome to have anything you would like. I know you must be hungry.”

“I am quite fine, thank you,” the Seeker replied as she collected her hands behind her back. “Are we finished here?”

Olivia shrugged, the arrow she had stuck in her hair shining in the afternoon sunlight. “Yes, of course. This is all I wished to see of the City, anyways.” The only thing worth seeing, truthfully. “The quickest way to the gates is this way.”

As Olivia and Solas turned and walked off, assuming Cassandra and Varric would be in toe, the Seeker turned and raised a brow at the Dwarf who seemed complicit in the Herald’s flights of fancy. Placing her hand on her hip, she stared at him with a look of disapproval.

“What?” Varric shrugged, “Not all of us run off of spite and prayer, Seeker.” He then took a hungry bite from his snack, chewing it robustly in order to get on her nerves.

“Ugh,” she replied, shaking her head as she saw herself off, following after the other two. Varric lingered in his place a bit, watching her stomp off. A sly grin on his lips as he chewed. This was going to keep getting better and better, he thought, for as long as Olivia seemed undaunted by Cassandra’s implicit intimidating tactics.


	5. Lines Drawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to Haven ushers two new allies, but new fears for Olivia as her past becomes harder to ignore. Whether or not it will come to light by virtue of rumor, or her own developing mouthiness remains to be seen.

Olivia’s penchant for “why not?” as a general modus operandi ended up proving more fruitful for the Inquisition than originally estimated -- and by that, specifically Cassandra,who accompanied the Herald along with Varric and Solas as they recruited not one, but two allies to their forces. The arrow leading to a rather crass but clever elf named Sera, who immediately hit it off with Olivia’s sense of humor. So much so, that Olivia did not even stop to wonder why someone like her, with her supposed network of “Red Jennies,” would be interested in serving a Holy Cause.

But then, there was the recruitment of First Enchanter Vivienne, known prolifically within the Court as Madame de Fer. Olivia had a more difficult time gathering the courage to pursue her, given that it involved attending a Soiree all alone. Not only that, but entering simply to be accosted by an unruly Nobleman with something to prove set her on edge for just how the rest of Orlesian society would treat her. Luckily for her Vivienne proved a most unapologetically talented hostess, and now ally.

A curious exchange occurred as Olivia moved to depart from the Manor for the evening. As she made her way to the gates, accompanied of course by Madame de Fer, she was asked one final question.

“If I may be a bit forward, my dear, there are certain rhetorical trends in the gossip about you. I am curious as to whether you have heard, given that you are so far removed from proper social circles in the mountains.”

Olivia tucked some of her hair behind her ear, feeling the slight itchiness of her overcoat she had last-minute changed into in order to feel more blended-into the scene. “No, I am afraid I have not. Most of my time has been spent transiently, if I am to be honest.”

“I see. Well, that is to be expected. Though I do think it’d be wise of you to kept up.”

“And why, if I may ask, is that?”

Vivienne came to stand at the front of the doors which led out to the foyer and vestibule, turning and facing her most important guest head on. The glimmering aura of her mask and gown giving her an otherworldly feel as she grinned.

“There is a striking resemblance between you, and a Rebel Mage purported to have made a mess of the Fereldan countryside. A Mage they have come to rather affectionately call the black dove, tied to a string of mysterious slayings and assassinations against Templars and their employed mercenaries.”

Olivia turned white as a sheet, her hand taking hold of her elbow as she scanned the room behind them for any witnesses or onlookers. Seeing as they were alone -- people rarely followed after Madame de Fer without clear invitation -- she returned her stare to her.

“Are they accusing this Mage, above all others, of criminal behavior? It was my understanding that the conflict between the Templars and Mages is one of muddied blame.”

“Mm, yes, though the Imperial Court does not like being told what they can and cannot play with when it comes to constructs of reputation. Especially when there is a delicious story to be uncovered, combining their three favorite ingredients: sex, murder, and Fereldan ineptitude.”

Olivia took a breath, tucking her chin a bit as she felt overwhelmed. The Foxes were never formally apart of the Rebellion’s organized forces -- if you could call them that -- but they had engaged in certain rebellious behaviors that aligned them. Indeed, they had only spent perhaps a week in the Hinterlands region near Redcliffe, where the Rebellion had become epicentered. Though, that may have proven to be the mistake that would come back to haunt her the most.

“Hm. I will inform my Ambassador and Seneschal of this maligning as soon as possible. Thank you for passing it onto me personally, Madame Vivienne.”

“Of course, dear. I always do enjoy learning more of the duality of women. Do travel safely, I hear the Seas have been experiencing intemperate weather.”

\--

Olivia was all-too-glad she could place an entire mountain range in between her and her reputation. Hopefully that would slow it down somehow. But, when one matter was not front and center, another was: configuring the Inquisition’s way forward given the refutation by the Templars, and the invitation by the Mages. To be sure, the hassle was not on Olivia’s part -- she had long decided her loyalties. The trouble lay with creating a consensus without diving the Council beyond repair.

As her and Cassandra walked into the Chantry, finally ready to bring on the discourse, their stonewalling had entered into the second week. Though, as Olivia gazed down at her anchor-tied hand, feeling the nerves within her skin dance in a way that was hard to get used to, Cassandra felt her cue to stimulate some sort of interaction.

“Does it hurt?” she asked as they walked together.

Olivia, immediately letting her hand go to her side and looking straight ahead, managed to grin. “No, in fact, it tickles.”

“Oh, does it now,” Cassandra eyed her from her periphery, once again returned with the playfulness she had been at odds with for weeks now it seemed.

“Yes, I spend all night laughing and giggling like a silly little fool. The only thing that tickles me pink more than its seemingly irrevocable connection to my body, is daydreaming about riding off into the countryside whilst my troops battle my war for me.”

The Seeker clenched her jaw from what Olivia could see out the corner of her eye. The disagreement that never got resolved was clearly still on Olivia’s mind, then. In a rare case for her, Cassandra had hoped such a thing would be forgotten without addressing it. So much time had passed that she felt shy about bringing it up as if she had lingered on it all this time, which she surely had not. Well, mostly.

“At least you have found a source of morale, then,” Cassandra conceded the fight before it even began. Olivia grinned smugly in response, rolling her lips so as to conceal it. Luckily for her, Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen then appeared to distract from her rhetorical victory.

“Greetings, everyone -- good news is we have gained two allies. Bad news is, the Templars hate our guts, and my guts in particular,” Olivia sighed.

“We heard, of course,” Leliana grinned, coming to stand in the circle they all formed together.

“Yes, and we are prepared to discuss the next steps with regards to Redcliffe. We must outline a plan and platform at once if we are to appear strong,” Josephine rejoined, quill and clipboard at the ready for notes.

“I still think the Templars are worth our time. I cannot and will not believe that the entire order is in line with the Lord Seeker’s plan. There must be dissent.” Commander Cullen’s voice graded on Olivia’s nerves, so much so that she actually felt viscerally guilty. After all, what had he done to her besides been a part of an order that oversaw her and her peers’ traumatization and marginalization of their rights? He had dissented and withdrawn from the order, after all. He had learned his lesson, and was putting it into practice to make up for his complicity: advocating for that same order he broke from.

Nothing about him made sense to her.

“The Templars are worth nothing but a swift reckoning for all they have done. The Mages have the power and the willingness to ally with us. If we can bring them into the fold, we not only gain capable allies, but put both Empires on notice.”

“A bold assertion to make so early in our days,” Josephine noted, “but boldness it useful.”

The Commander, narrowing in on the Herald as she stood undaunted, pushed further. “The Templars have the numbers we need and the respect from the Empire and Chantry to bolster our cause.”

“Respect built upon who’s backs, Commander?”

The group stilled, no one willing to be the next voice to talk as the conversation seemed to refine itself down to a fissure between the Inquisition’s Commander and Herald of Andraste.

“The Mages have just as much to atone for after this conflict, and it will overshadow our cause if we are to take on their assimilation into the ranks. More than half of our troops are former Templar soldiers or recruits. To invite the Rebel Mages that have contributed to the disintegration of the Order they once respected is unwise.”

Olivia folded her arms, the stretching of the leather hide in her thick gloves groaning so she didn’t have to. “If I have to inhabit this camp knowing individuals who wore the same armor as my assailants day by day are happily standing outside my door, they can get used to the incorporation of willing allies into our numbers.”

“We cannot grow a united following by instigating factions so early on. One individual’s discomfort and the tensions between large groups is not the sa--”

“I have known the talents Templars pride themselves for in making as many Mages as they can ‘uncomfortable,’ Commander, so do not attempt to muddy the water with semantics. If those among our personnel have the free time to entertain factioning, they clearly do not have a proper understanding of the cause at hand. The time for entertaining dominant vanities that beautify violence is over.”

Everyone now glanced Olivia’s way. The reckoning of her quick tongue made the air seem to bow to her. A pin dropping could have echoed in the wake of her bluntness.

“If I may interject,” Josephine grinned, moving in on the growing argument with a mind for resolution and not escalation. “We still have not finally decided on which party to invite into alliance. The meeting at Redcliffe is just that -- a meeting. We can still evaluate afterwards what will be the best course of action. Things may change, and variables may arise in that time. It is important to keep as many playable cards in the game as possible.”

“Yes, proceed to the meeting with open eyes and ready ears, Herald,” Leliana added, “this meeting was most unexpected, and I imagine it will have more in store for you.”

Olivia nodded, doing her best to soften her expression. It did not help that the last face she landed on was Cullen’s, who’s stern glare felt hard to look away from. Olivia seemed to have a duplicity to her: the woman who the workers praised for her pleasantries and simple kindness, and the woman who harbored a sharp tongue for those who had aided and abetted her trauma. How was she to be a workable ally when there was no cohesion between the two sides of her?

“Very well. Thank you, everyone. I will be seeing you later tonight. I must be off to meet with the Apothecary and Sera.”

Withdrawing respectfully from the group, Olivia strutted herself down the Chantry Hall knowing she would have all eyes on her. If her reputation did not track her down across these mountains, her convictions would identify her outright soon enough. It was a most conflicted place to be -- wanting to stand up for what was right, and not wanting to bring attention to herself.

After she was gone, Leliana moved in closer to Cassandra, bringing together the former hands of the Divine for one more covert conversation.

“I have read reports from Solas and Varric -- she is proving most difficult for you to figure out, no?” she said, an air of teasing in her voice.

Cassandra put her arms behind her back, eyeing the path Olivia had left behind before she returned Leliana’s keen stare. “She is hiding something. Possibly many things. But, it is as if she is simply getting away with not being asked the proper questions.”

“Josephine to her knowledge has never been dodged when inquiring as to her background. Perhaps you simply need a different approach.”

“My approach works well enough, Leliana. I do not have time for mind games, if that is what she is trying to provoke. She is young, inexperienced, and still navigating as if she is a runaway Mage with no adherence to structure except that which is informed by her own fantasies of the way the world should be, and not for what it is.”

Leliana smirked, her lips parting as he leaned away from her compatriot and collaborator. “I think we all know by that display we have just witnessed, that she is anything but inconsistent. I would alter your stratagem if you desire any kind of working report with her besides stoic stalemate. We need visionaries, Cassandra, just as we need pragmatists. Justinia taught us as much.”

The Spymaster offered one last nod of encouragement, before seeing herself off to her own respective concerns. Cassandra eyed her one last time as she left, feeling a bit annoyed that so much attention was being brought to the reputed dysfunction between her and the Herald. This was not what she had envisioned -- none of it, actually -- but even Cassandra deeped down optimistically believed that the best could be made of difficult situations.

She thought of what her Most Holy herself would suggest. She had engaged in conflict resolution with her before when it came to people who had oppositional personalities. Justinia was an advocate for common ground above all as the ideal conduit for change. Surely, she would criticize Olivia for digging her heels into her position just as much as she would Cassandra for valuing hers. Olivia hadn’t conceded an inch of who she was or what she had to lose. Even though Leliana believed her Orlesian nature to be an outlier, Cassandra wasn’t as convinced. Perhaps she had simply fooled everyone into thinking she was too wayward to play with the tools at her disposal by birthright, and hers was the greatest artifice of all.

\--

“Oh, but then, do we not add the primer?”

“Yes, did you not read the scrolls I had given you?”

Olivia chuckled, grabbing for the bottle from the shelf at once. “I have had quite the week, Adan. Perhaps I have not been the most studious.”

Adan grunted as he cleaned used up glass bottles. “Excuses do not yield results, Herald.”

Shaking her head with a smile as she opened the corked bottle, she reached in with a measuring spoon and shook out a generous dosage of primer powder. Wasting no time as she tapped it into the mixture flask, she noticed the fluid start to bubble and turn blue. Immediately, she set down the primer and grabbed the scroll she had been studying, eyes scanning for the step in the process where it said what color the mixture was supposed to turn into.

“Ha! Blue!” she exclaimed as she tapped on the paper.

Adan turned from his chores to look across the room, his face still unimpressed as it always was. Looking past her to her makeshift workspace she had cordoned off for her little experiments, he smirked humorlessly.

“Yes, but it did not say it was supposed to overflow from the glass.”

Olivia’s eyes widened as she looked back at him. “Overflow…? Oh! Maker’s hairy ass!” she turned and saw the mixture was indeed bubbling over. Dashing to the corner for a rag, she tried her best to soak up the benign elixir medium as much as possible. Meanwhile, she whimpered and cursed in Orlesian under her breath.

“I am so sorry, Adan!” she said, starting to get a handle on the mess even as it dripped to the floor below.

Adan then appeared at her side, carrying another rag and dropping it to the floor. Padding the puddle with his foot, he shrugged. “It is because of you that we have supplies to experiment with in the first place, Your Worship. A mess or two is no concern.”

Olivia glanced his way, offering a sorry grin. Wiping up the last of the elixir gone awry from the table, she busied herself by folding the now dirty rag.

“It is nothing, for the chance to remind myself of who I was supposed to be,” Olivia sighed under her breath as she stared down the now messy and drenched flask. “I used to put together elixirs in my sleep almost, and now since the Conclave I...I find parts of my memory are...strained.” Olivia mourned many things in private when no one was there to pick her apart, one of them being her promising future as an Apothecary Mage. She was the top performing apprentice at Ostwick, primed for a good future once she had passed her Harrowing and taken on more responsibilities. Had the Circles not disbanded, she most certainly would have become a teacher in the ranks, and may have traveled or transferred to other Circles for her work. For her, that was the most she could aspire to be, and now faced with the daunting task of Andraste’s chosen servant, she appreciated it more now.

“You and me both, Herald. But we have all been asked to dip our dirty toes into responsibilities outside our expertise,” Adan comforted as he picked up his own rag, and taking the one in Olivia’s hands from her. “I don’t envy yours, even as I complain about having to attend to Healer’s duties.”

Olivia smirked, leaning her hands on the table. “No, I would not envy me, either.”

Adan sighed hoarsely, tossing the rags to a barrel in the corner that seemed to be designated for laundry or dirtied materials. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he made the first extension of touch to her out of all the allies in the Inquisition.

“Hold steady, Your Worship. When we make a mistake on a formula, we toss out the batch, not the entire cabinet of supplies.”

She looked back up at him them, a couple strands of her tied-up hair falling into her face. She grinned then, her eyes softening unlike they had ever done in the presence of her comrades. She reached back and patted his hand with hers.

“Thank you, Adan.”

He would not smile or grin in return, but that did not matter to Olivia. His words and his enabling of her curious scholarly projects on the side was well enough. He could be as gruff and stern as he wanted.

As he went back to his side of the room, the door opened briskly as if kicked almost. What better way to enter a room for Sera of all people. Coming around the door and placing her hands on her hips, the elf who had tickled Olivia’s humor grinned with trouble seeming to be not far behind. Everything from her plaidweave printed pants, to the bluntness of her haircut, told Olivia she could understand her no-nonsense mindset better than most anyone. Perhaps she would not be entirely alone after all.

“Right, so you got ideas?” she said as she approached the famed Herald.

Olivia stood away from the table, then, rubbing her stressfully strained neck as she made eye contact with one of her newest compatriots. “Yes, of course. You have the weapons?”

“Sure as shit, though what makes you think your mixes are better than mine?” Sera made herself at home, then, hopping onto the work desk that Olivia had just cleaned off of elixir formula. Olivia let out a sigh of relief knowing that Sera’s butt wouldn’t turn blue -- at least, she hoped. It was too late to prevent it now, and perhaps she would be the one who would be least embarrassed.

She smiled, though, at Sera’s question. Reaching back into her head of messy hair, Olivia found and withdrew the arrowhead she had kept all this time since it was shot in the city center to her feet. She held it between her two index fingers on either tip of it, presenting it to her comrade.

“This is good work. But, a resin that can withstand fire and the marrow laced with flammable grenade powder?” she raised a brow as she suggested her plan.

Sera’s pout grew into a mischievous grin. “Breeches on fire, like the sayin.’ I like it.”

Olivia giggled. “Good. If you can give me five of these same arrows, I can start my experiments.”

She then reached out her hand, and thus a deal, between them. Sera, ever the class act, spat on her palm and combined it with hers. Olivia chuckled as they shook hands. It wasn’t much -- and truth be told, flammable bomb arrows were not anything new, for either of them -- but Olivia needed a project, something to propel her studies forward again. One could not run before one could crawl.

Sera smirked, then, watching Olivia stick the arrow back into her hair.

“You make good deals, Harold. You should come get an ale sometime, and bust it out in cards with the smelly men.”  
Grabbing a series of bottles from the looming shelf in front of her, Olivia shook her head with a smile. “I am afraid taverns are not my scene,” she replied. Not after so many months of having to depend on them like they were her universe, for money, food, and shelter. Even though she had met Flissa, and generally liked her, it was not enough to compel her. Stepping into a Tavern one more time was one more time too many -- she had the world to see, one which didn’t always have a sticky floor or a symphony of grumbling men.

“Ah, well, shit. Are you gonna be a booksmart priss, then?”

“I am going to be a scholar who performs projects, yes, Sera,” Olivia snickered as she pulled the measuring spoons back out. “It was what I was in the Circle.”

“Does that mean you’re gonna be sending magic flyin’ everywhere?” the rogue said with an air of hesitance in her voice, as she leaned her shoulders away from Olivia and her materials.

Eyeing her from her periphery, Olivia froze in place with one spoon of purple-looking powder above a bowl. “Perhaps.”

“Yugh, alright, well, let me know when we get to the fun part of shootin’ things.”

Hopping off the table with a hop in her step, Sera waved over her head as she sought her exit. Was Olivia cute? Yes. Was she charming? Yes. Was she worth waiting around for her pants to be set on fire by a Mage’s reckless hands? No.

Olivia chuckled again, watching her leave from over her shoulder. Her eyes panned downward, though, to the slight blue stain on Sera’s butt. So, the clean-up job was not effective after all. Biting her lip to suppress a laugh, her voice was brittle when she replied.

“Farewell, Sera. Try not to be so...b-blue…” she couldn’t resist it any longer. She leaned forward over her desk and laughed, slamming her hand on the desk as she did so.

Sera, confused as to why such an exchange would provoke such a response, noticed the discoloration out of the corner of her eye. Grabbing at the back of her top and breeches with one hand, she contorted herself so as to look down at the unfortunate stain.

“Ah, tits, this is my good outfit!” she cursed. “Did you get my goat, Harold?!”

Olivia, still laughing, placed the back of her hand to her mouth and turned to face her. “No, it was a mess from an experiment gone wrong, honest!”

“Right, and the Maker is my brother’s side piece! Agh!” Sera seemed angry, but the sly smile on her lips said anything but. “Well, shit. At least you’re not boring.”

Calming herself down, Olivia placed her hands on her hips. “That, at least, you can be sure of. If you hand your breeches off to me I can arrange to have them cleaned personally. I am so sorry, Sera.”

“Don’t bother. I know how to scrub things in a creek, when I’m not shit up it. I will get you back, though. Consider this a warnin,” she said, waving her hands in the air a bit before she finally took her leave. All in good jest, but Olivia was not unsure of whether she should be afraid, lock up her belongings, or find a whole new place to sleep. Perhaps a combination of all three.

Rolling her shoulders, a few laughs bubbling from her throat, Olivia felt more like herself than she had in months -- and it amazed her to know she could still tell the difference.


	6. Mutual Interests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission to Redcliffe to meet with the Rebel Mages does not go according to plan, of course. Though, it does lead to the Herald and her allies finding another would-be sympathizer in the form of a most gallant Tevinter Mage.

“Well, that was entirely the disaster I had predicted,” Madame Vivienne remarked as the group departed from the Rusty Anchor tavern, where a meeting with the Mages had somehow evolved into a meeting with a Tevinter Magister and his son. Olivia had done well, given the circumstances: not promising anything, but signaling an invigorated interest in an alliance with the Mages. Seeing Fiona and the others become subservient to the whims of a Tevinter who felt as though he were a crow descended on a carcass yet to have been discovered by bigger predators was most unnerving.

But, amidst the confusion, a message: handed off by Alexius’s son, Felix during a stumble. Olivia clung to it dearly as they all assembled outside around each other, opening it as soon as she was able to.

“It says we are in danger, and to go to the Chantry as soon as possible,” Olivia said skeptically, before scanning the faces around her. Cassandra, Vivienne, and Solas had proven a most esteemed company of rivaling intellects. But now, even they appeared to be slightly off balance by the sequence of events before them.

“Are we to trust such a note from the son of a Tevinter Magister?” Cassandra asked.

“Surely, there are more tricks afoot than simply passed notes,” Vivienne added, placing a hand on her hip. “Unless we are to get into bed with the Imperium, I suggest we move on.”

Olivia held her breath, looking off down the path where the Chantry was said to be located. Up until then, she had dodged having to enter such buildings.

“Felix felt sincere. If we were to ponder the ability of Templars to dissent from their leaders, we can afford such for the followers of a bizarre Magister.”

“Feelings can be carefully choreographed, Olivia,” Solas cautioned.

“I know, but then again, they can also be clumsy. I wish to pursue this. Let us go, before we are too late for whatever awaits us.”

Vivienne and Cassandra each nodded, though with looks of tenuous disagreement. Solas, ever the one inclined to wait and see how fate unfolded itself, followed after the Herald as he seemed to do rather faithfully. As they all embarked down the road, Olivia could feel the rising risk: if this was a trap, she would surely have to fish them out of it. If it wasn’t, then she would have to contend with a possible collusion with Tevinter dissidents. Neither futurity gave her cause for relaxation.

Entering the Chantry to the sounds of noise and magic being expelled, all three Mages instinctively clutched their staff grips. Cassandra marched on with them, unsheathing her longsword. The sight was chaos: warped auras of mysterious, reality-distorting magic like the kind they encountered at the city gates. Amidst them, demons wailed and hurled attacks toward one lone Mage.

“Ah! Good, just in time,” he said nonchalantly given the situation at hand, “now, if you don’t mind helping me with this mess?!”

Olivia took her staff fully into position, swiftly shaking out her left hand as it popped with the anchor’s sensitive power. As they moved in, Mage fire and sword wielded, Olivia utilized her nimble frame to dodge the zones of warped time. She could feel them pulling on her, though, as if digesting the energies around them -- her mana, especially, feeling inclined to their inertia. That was the dynamic between expended magic. This was a Mage’s doing.

Reaching out towards the rift, her anchor struck a band of light and power into it, stunning the demons surrounding them. As she was suspended in this exchange, she reached her staff hand lower towards the floor and cast a protective fire glyph where she stood -- a trap for any oncoming enemies.

As she felt the insurgence of a protective barrier cast by Solas, her anchor released itself from the rift. It was weak but not closed. Turning her attention to an envy demon encroaching on her, she stood her ground. The glyph was ready, and she knew it. Placing a foothold behind her, she used her staff to cast bursts of flame against it, sending the demon screeching and wailing as it burned. Its advance continued, though, but as she took one step back she knew she had lured it into one final engulfing.

As it took its doomed step into her trap, the creature wailed again as the entrapment cast it into flames.

Olivia grinned, then. She was getting stronger.

Her reckoning was cut short, though, but the feeling of ashen dust billowing over her from behind in a gust. Turning to see where it had come from, she found the man with his staff held out horizontally alongside his other hand. The Mage had saved the Herald from an attack from another demon she had scarcely noticed in entangling with her own opponent, having her back when she didn’t even know his name.

Wiping some of the dust from her fact, she exhaled. Close calls could not be afforded like this much longer. They made eye contact briefly before she returned to the rift, reaching again to close it once and for all. Everyone surrounded her as the fissure grew smaller and smaller, bubbling with sinister energy before collapsing.

Reclaiming her hand, she watched as the encirclings of the obscure magic dissipated as well. So, they were connected.

The stranger came closer, a sly smile on his lips laced with a meticulously groomed mustache. Olivia couldn’t know for certain, but most of her allies did -- he was indeed Tevinter, in both origin and persona.

“Fascinating!” he said, standing to face her head on, “how does that work exactly? Hah, you don’t even know, do you? You just wiggle your pretty little fingers and boom, rift closes.”

Olivia sighed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. As she glanced back at her comrades, she felt that she was not the only one.

“If my fingers were that talented, Ser, I scarcely would have to seek pleasurable gratification at the hands of others. I think the true mystery is your identity.”

The Mage gasped a chuckle, adding to the gallantry of his impression. “Ah, I am getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian, of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

Vivienne huffed. “Let one Tevinter in, and suddenly they are scurrying around the walls and tables like roaches.”

“Now, now. I am vastly more handsome than anything resembling a cockroach. Magister Alexius was once my Mentor, so my assistance should be of value to you.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. The assumption that anyone was useful to her as if they claimed unfettered allegiance from the get-go was suspicious to her outright. Especially when it came from that of a Tevinter, who’s culture she had read about in the Circle as being one of exploitation and tumult with a gothic stylistic flare.

“Alas, Dorian, it was not you I was expecting to find here. Where is Felix?”

Dorian looked off to the side, his smugness waning a bit into sincerity. “I am sure he will be here shortly. He was supposed to hand off the note and then join us, after ditching his Father.”

Olivia’s brow furrowed a bit. She glanced at her allies, who all seemed equally as skeptical and standoffish as she wanted to be on the inside. It took a bit of self-control not to give into prejudice at the get-go.

“I see. His Father seemed most alarmed at his condition. Is he unwell?”

Dorian sighed a bit, then, placing his hands on his hips. “Felix has endured a lingering illness for months. Consequently, his Father dotes on him. He is is only child, after all.”

“And how is it that you know so much? Are you a fellow Magister then?”

“Alright, let me say this once: I am a Mage from Tevinter, but I am not a part of the Magisterium. I know southerners can hardly tell the difference, but that only reflects poorly on you. It makes you sound like Barbarians”

“Oh, wonderful, I shall take note next time,” Olivia smirked, an impatient smile on her face. “Now, then, are you the origin of this note I will promptly burn with my by bare, barbarian hand after we’re finished here?”

“Ah, hah, yes. I am afraid so.” Dorian then shook his head. “Look, you must have known, note or no note, that there is danger here. Someone had to warn you of what awaits you here. Take for example, Alexius stealing the Rebel Mages’ loyalty out from under you. Appears by magic, yes? Well, that is exactly what has happened. In order to beat the Inquisition’s arrival at Redcliffe, Alexius distorted time itself.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed, as her smile dissolved into a parted frown. “How can that be? Time magic is ever much a fantasy as it is a theoretical suggestion. It is a dead-ended practice.”

“Indeed,” Vivienne added, “attempted only by the foolish seeking their own destruction. Time magic has not been harnessed nor manifested once across the ages.”

Dorian tilted his head. “You saw the zones of distorted time and reality, did you not? Soon, they will be appearing further and further away from Redcliffe, more powerful and inescapable than one room’s worth. I do not pretend to believe his methods are stable -- they are anything but. However, it will unravel the world as we know it.”

Olivia returned her staff to her back, freeing up her hands so she could fold them to her chest.

“This is a lot to commit to on the basis of good faith between a Tevinter and a Southerner as you have so astutely identified me.”

Dorian’s brows lowered as he dug his heels into his position. “I know what I am talking about. I helped develop and harness this magic. When I was but an apprentice, this was merely theory. Alexius could not get it to work. What confuses is why he is doing it. Destroying the fabric of time itself in order to gain a few hundred lackeys?”

“He didn’t do it for them,” a voice rang out from the direction of one of the doorways. It was indeed the person she had originally sought out: Felix, arriving in the nick of time for creative conversation.

“There you are,” Dorian greeted, “took you long enough. Is he getting suspicious?”

“No, but I should not have played the illness card. I thought he would be fretting over me all day.” He then turned to look at the Herald. “My Father has joined a cult of Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves ‘Venatori.’ And I can tell you one thing, whatever he has done for them, he has done it to get to you.”

Olivia tilted her head, then, adjusting her weight onto one hip. “And he is your Father. Why work against him? Surely, concerning yourself over my safety as a stranger is anything but pertinent.”

“I act on the same reasons Dorian has. I love my Father as I love my Country, but this? Time magic? Cults? This is madness. I wish to stop him for his own sake as well as yours, and the lives of innocent people.”

Dorian sighed a bit. “It would also be nice if he didn’t rip a hole in time, what with one already in the sky.”

“This still doesn’t make sense out of why he has specifically fixated on me, then.” Olivia glanced back at Felix, still unsatisfied with the details. The idea of being hunted not only by Templars, but by Venatori cultists now? Surely she deserved some clarification as to why she was so popular. Well, besides the foreboding anchor in her left hand, and her survival at the Conclave whilst the Temple was obliterated around her.

“They are obsessed with you,” Felix replied, “but I don’t know why. Maybe it has something to do with what you have survived.”

“You can close the rifts -- perhaps there is a connection of interest or ability. Or, you are a threat,” Dorian added.

Olivia’s jaw tensed. Being a threat on the basis of her own organic abilities was one thing, but being one because of something she did not ask for nor feel capable of containing was another. It felt like being tied to the back of a runaway horse heading towards a cliff. Though, she steadied herself, taking a breath in the face of the inevitable she had been taking in stride as much as she could.

“Fine, then, how do we stop him before he does irreparable damage and I am tasked with closing two cataclysmic breaches in the world?”

Felix smirked, but Dorian was the one to offer a suggestion.

“You know he is after you. Expecting the trap is the first step towards gaining the 

upper hand. I, for one, cannot stay here much longer. Alexius doesn’t know I am here, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Oh, to be you,” Olivia raised a brow. Such a privilege it would be to travel so covertly, and dodge hostile attention.

“There are those who dream of such possibilities daily. However, I must be off.

whenever you are ready to deal with him, I will be there. I’ll be in touch.”

As Dorian headed for his exit, Olivia did not stop him, nor did she a reason to. He had obviously accomplished what he had come for, and she now had to process the new “cards” in play. Josephine had been right: more developments were surely on the wings with each new day.

“Oh, and Felix, try not to get yourself killed!” Dorian said, turning and walking backwards momentarily as he said farewell to an old friend.

Felix merely shook his head. “There are worse things than dying, Dorian.”

\--

Unstrapping and unbuckling herself from her armor, Olivia stewed on the events of the day. It was bound to be a report to send ahead of her return to Haven that would cause eyes to widen across the Council table. She worried about the ways in which she did not feel completely discouraged from alliance with the Mages even with the heavy presence of Tevinter extremists in the region. Should she turn from this, after all, and seek alliance with the Templars? There were ripples disturbing the waters, now.

Yanking herself out of the metal-scaled armor coat she had worn, she felt her rib cage expand like it hadn’t been able to for the whole day. In the confines of her tent she could finally breathe, reaching and grabbing a wool-lined overcoat to keep herself warm in the cold climate. As she hooked and buttoned herself up, she noticed that her stomach had grown. Not from fat which would have been welcomed given the months of malnutrition on the road. As she placed her hand across her abdomen, the stiffness of muscle greeted her touch. She had not known this sensation since she was in daily training as an Opera dancer as a child. Now, it was born of self-defense and not entertainment.

Finishing up with dressing, she took her hair out of its netted hold and combed through its knots with her fingers. It felt good to scratch and rub her scalp about a long day of sweating and stressing, even if her hair was a bit of a tangled mess. She has no Ambassador or Spymaster to shame her into brushing it when she was out on the front lines. There were also no friends to sit around the campfire with whilst Theia braided it out of her face, and Naomi tossed flower blossoms from her harvested Healer’s herbs for her to play with and put in her hair. Without the love, without the friendship, she was wildly tousled in this life.

 _\- “Olivia, you could hide a bird’s nest in here! What on Earth…”_ Theia.

_\- “Yes, and the entire Denerim city guard, might I add.”_ Veronica. 

_\- “And they would gladly hide there for a glimpse at their patroness’s smile, would they not?”_ Naomi.

Their voices echoed as if her mind was a hallway on the morning of Santinalia, when a child’s curiosity would pin their ear to their bedroom door anticipating noises of awakened loved ones. They made her smile, but they were elusive like ghosts. She missed it enough to gather her hair to one shoulder, and braid it loosely along it. It was not as good as the tight, neat, and shapely strands Theia could create, but it would do. Tying it at the bottom with a band, she took a breath and decided to re-enter the open air of the world.

When she did, she was greeted by a singular Madame de Fer, who was gazing out from the hillside the encampment had been perched on. In the weeks following the initial occupation, the Inquisition’s presence had grown larger and more sophisticated. Camps had started to look more capable, and less like an assemblage of dirty tents and uneven tables. Though, it would never be quite to the standards of Vivienne’s tastes.

“Hello Vivienne,” Olivia said as she arrived at her side. She glanced out at the terrain, and the sunset that had just concluded, leaving its shadow of oranges and purples to dim with the daylight into the darkness of night.

“Greetings,” Vivienne replied simply, folding her arms as she nodded her way. “I trust you are deep in contemplation about the day’s dramatics.”

“Yes, of course. It would be hard not to. I think if I should meet one more perplexing personality I shall reconsider the Inquisition as a circus.”

Vivienne smirked. “My dear, if that was all it took, you fortitude in this path has been doomed to an early grave along with you.”

Olivia blinked slowly, feeling her nerves again. Everyone was finding so many ways to tell her she had to buck up, or that any weakness was unbecoming of the task at hand. Solas, in her training. Cassandra, in her icey stare and dismissive authority. Cullen and his general existence. So few people greeted her these days with anything less than an indictment of her fatigue.

“Start digging, then, Madame.”

The First Enchanter raised a brow. “You concede so quickly to demise? Is that the hard-won determination of a Mage Rebel?”

A shiver went down the Herald’s spine as she was called out. She fixated on Vivienne’s face, then, her eyes narrowing. “I thought we discussed such things as rumor, Madame?”

Vivienne merely shrugged one shoulder, poised and ready like a weapon of mass destruction under the guise of good manners. “You seek to exist in a grey area that has long since been obliterated. There is either the Circle, or the Rebellion’s ranks, and the innocent to make do in the margins.”

“I have not clarified myself as belonging to either, or any, faction to begin with.”

“That is true, Herald, but the Circles do not function as system of good-faith between outliers. They have a structure and code of conduct that require adherence.”

“They require complicity, as well, Vivienne. You and I come from the same one, after all.”

Vivienne then turned to face her more directly. The conversation was on, then; Olivia had taken the bait.

“Indeed, the same Circle where Mages were slaughtered by their own apprentices in an act of “revolution.” Tell me, how is it you traveled so far, to the Temple of Sacred Ashes of all places, with no allegiance or ties to a given Circle or Elder in the Rebellion Hierarchy?”

“The matters that were to be negotiated at the Conclave concerned more people, and more Mages, than those deemed worthy of recognition in the system.”

“Being concerned with and being invited are not always mutually inclusive, Herald.”

Olivia took a breath, fighting the urge to clench her teeth down to dust. She looked out in front of her though the horizon and corresponding countryside felt both irrelevant and blurry to her vision. She re-centered herself as she sighed and released the need to defend herself ruthlessly. This was not a battle she wished to have and it was not one she could win.

“My presence at the Conclave notwithstanding, I am here now, and I am ready to do what needs to be done in order to save what little goodness there remains in this world. My hand rids me of choice, as does my vulnerability as a Mage. The world loves to rely on us cornered into action at the service of our oppressors, does it not?”

Tilting her weight onto one hip, she took one last look at Vivienne who seemed undaunted in the line of fire. Their eyes met, both fortified by walls of will and confidence. Madame de Fer would not let this go, but she would let the Herald squirm. Knowing this to be inevitable, Olivia then turned around, walking back to the center of the camp to preoccupy herself with something else besides splitting hairs about Mage circumstances.

What did people have to gain by standing with an ally they were simultaneously eager to knock down?


	7. The Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition Allies embark on the Storm Coast in order to track down possible mercenary allies, and deal with trouble with organized bandits in the region. Olivia sees more of the unfortunate consequences of waging conflict with the land, but not all proves disheartening.

When a mysterious mercenary had come all the way to Haven from the Storm Coast to proposition their forces with a contracted employment of a group referred to as “The Bulls Chargers,” Olivia was more enthusiastic than most to set out on the voyage to track down these would-be allies. As Varric would find out during a conversation before her departure from Haven, Olivia had in fact read a great deal of adventurous stories staged along the vast shore: dragons, giants, bears, oh my. What Olivia’s vigor showed to him that her words did not, though, was a Mage long sheltered in the confines of a rural Circle, who had no need for a Knight or a Prince, but for a compass and a horse.

Slowly but surely, he was getting the hang of Andraste’s Herald, even as everyone else seemed to scramble to figure her out. Contrary to everyone’s style of either interrogation or spying, Varric believed Olivia -- like all would-be heroines -- hid nothing about her true nature. It was merely a pattern of small behaviors, actions, words, and convictions that pulled together the motivations of one imperfect, but worthy human being. So far Olivia was no exception, though she sternly believed herself such.

She was also good at jokes, though, which she made good use of as her excited spirit kept the morale livened. On the morning they finally landed on the Coast, in the encampment established by the most dependable Scout Harding.

“Your Worship, for what it’s worth, welcome to the Storm Coast. I would have sent word sooner, but our efforts have been...delayed.”

Olivia looked around, vision slightly inhibited by the slightly soaked hood she had over her head. “What has been going on, exactly?”

“There’s a group of bandits operating in the area. They know the terrain, and our small party has had trouble going up against them. Some of our soldiers went to go speak to their leader. Haven’t heard back, though.”

From behind, the Seeker chimed in. “When is the last time they were seen or heard from?” her authoritative tone made Olivia wonder sometimes why she elected to bring her along for every mission, given that she was about to ask the same question but now felt sudden stage-fright. For some reason, it was hard to imagine traveling anymore without Cassandra’s knack for being the logical navigator.

“It has been several hours. We estimated it would be so due to the lack of adequate mapping. But, it’s still a concern to me. I would appreciate it if you followed up.”

“We will, Lieutenant,” Olivia said quickly so as to reinstate herself in the conversation, “is there anything else you need?”

“Thank you. The soldiers had started to search for the bandits farther down the beach. With all this fuss, it’s been hard to get an exact location, so, take care. Otherwise, that will be it. At least the sea air will be good for you, I hear.”

Olivia giggled as she rolled her shoulders within the rigidity of her armor. “Oh, I have heard as well. I look forward to it.”

\--

The journey to the rendezvous location proved a bit longer than expected, and coming across a few stragglers of bandits that were made short work of, the group -- Olivia, the new Warden ally known as Blackwall who they had tracked down in the Hinterlands, Cassandra, and Sera, this time -- were able to get to the bottom of the problem. Though, it meant finding what remained of the soldiers who had gone to negotiate terms.

Stepping into the dilapidated shed, there were bodies strewn around a table that held a note. Whilst Cassandra and Blackwall’s attention went to the message left behind, Olivia had her eyes scanning the floor where the soldiers laid lifeless. Unhooding herself, she took a breath. Some of their faces, so young like hers, and even younger. Approaching one of them, she crouched by her side as she laid on her back, eyes still open. From the looks of it, she had died by a dagger attack and then an arrow that shot the fatal blow. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either would have been an unfortunate way to go, hunted like a beast. Olivia was all-too-used to such fears.

Picking up the note and reading it immediately, Cassandra hadn’t noticed until she turned to dictate its contents a stilled Herald of Andraste looming mournfully over the body of one of their own. Her face, in a rare show of honest, sobered melancholy. It made her stop and freeze, gazing at her from across the way.

Olivia wasn’t attached to the present to notice she had gained an audience. For her, the face of a woman slain before her with the prettiest blue-grey eyes she had seen in a long while -- that was where she found herself. Hugging her crouched knees, she bowed her head, tucking her chin into her chest. She closed her eyes and said a few words, muttered roughly under her breath. No one could hear, though they all wished to know what she was saying: a prayer? Was she secretly Andrastian after all? Or was it something else, idle and polytheistic she had adapted from her past?

But, as quick as she had started, she had stopped. Her last act was a hand pressed to the soldier’s face, moving down slowly as she closed her eyes for her. Her skin was cold for a fresh kill -- the storm coast was a frigid grave to have.

Cassandra blinked a few times, recollecting her focus. While there was always time for mourning, it most often manifested as a multitasking effort. “I will have their families alerted as to what happened,” she offered dutifully.

Standing up onto her feet, Olivia looked to Sera who had stood behind her several yards away, though attentive. She offered a grin, one that said she was okay and not to concern herself, before she turned to reply to the Seeker.

“Good. I also want to ensure that their families are compensated if we can. But for now, what is it you have in your hand?” her face calmed, now, as she took steps closer to the table.

“It appears to be a map from a group calling themselves the Blades of Hessarion. It invites us to bring an emblem in order to challenge their leader, or else.”

Olivia tilted her chin. Great, a challenge, because those were in such short supply.

“I suppose the alternative is, then, to continue with the bloodshed until one group prevails,” Olivia replied as she began to pace slowly across the uneven, decayed wooden floor.

“Arsholes,” Sera said as she wiped rainwater from her face that had mixed with her sweat, stinging her eyes that were needed for an archer’s precision. “What good is killin’ for to keep land up here in this bloody puddle of a place.”

“This land is known for its natural resources, perhaps they dwell on more than just space,” Cassandra added.

Olivia felt a chilled gust up against her back and neck, sending a slight shiver through her drenched hair and skin. She had no idea what would await her if she were to take on the conduct of these Blades of Hessarion and issue a formal challenge. But she knew what laid ahead if she didn’t: skirmishes, wasted time, and land disputes. Even without the formal training of a warrior or tactician, she knew it unwise. Who else had to lose their life for something she could resolve by risking her own?

“If I have to track down whatever makes this emblem and show up with it pinned to my ass, then fine,” she said, taking one last look at the array of corpses surrounding them. She swallowed hard, approaching Cassandra and taking the parchment from her hand. “As long as it stops all this from getting worse.”

She then started walking back from whence they had hiked, presumably to return to base camp and go over what it would take to craft such a tool. The allies all glanced at each other, in various ways wondering what Olivia would look like provoked beyond pleasantries out in the field.

“Are you all going to come along now, or will you wait for a second round of peace talks whilst the clumsy blonde gets crafty?!” she called back to them from outside the shed.

\--

The emblem’s project would take the rest of the day for requisitioned supplies to be gathered and for it to be put together. In the meantime, Olivia had ventured down to the coastline to take care of another piece of business: meeting these supposed Chargers. The talks proved fruitful, and Olivia made a most intriguing impression on the Qunari Tamassran who towered over her but nonetheless respected her feistiness in a fight.

 _The Iron Bull,_ she thought to herself as she was down on the shoreline that night as the sky darkened. _A name with built-in armor._ She would look forward to having him as a “personal bodyguard,” as he put it.

Tightly wrapped in several layers as the rain continued to pour down on her, and her knife in hand, she was busy harvesting black lotus from the shallow waters lining the rocks. Torches could not be bothered with in this kind of climate, and she was quickly realizing that the land of all those stories was much more petulant than the authors described. Romanticism had failed her once again.

Fighting off the inclination to shiver as her gloved hands reached through the water for the root of another stock of lotus, a stray wave of water broke up against her, drenching her hopelessly beyond the effects of rainfall. Olivia gasped and fell back, tossing her knife back over her head as she sat down on one hip in the foot or so of water. Coughing up sea water and feeling her gloved hands become flooded within, she stayed still for a moment as the waves calmed around her.

Sighing heavily as she stared at the floating cut stock of lotus in front of her, she wished for once that life would just allow her to have what she searched for.

“Are you alright, Your Worship?” a voice called from yards behind where she had fallen. Olivia turned to see Blackwall, the Warden longer carrying what looked to be a bunch of driftwood under his arm.

Olivia smirked, leaning up over her haunches as she began to get herself back up from her fall. “Fine! I’m fine! Just a silly fool!” she said, clutching the last stem of lotus she would gather for the night. Rising to her feet with the water rushing around her, she felt the weight of her cloak bearing down on her shoulders and neck from being soaked. Struggling but eventually finding her footing in the shifting shore pebbles, she stuffed the plants into her satchel on her hip, and turned around to head back to dry land. She was welcomed by Blackwall, of course, who had not moved on from where he stood.

Clinging her arms to her chest as she felt her entire body begin to shiver, Olivia managed a brittle smile. “W-what h-has got you out h-here?”

Blackwall chuckled, shaking his head as he put the driftwood piled to the ground. Taking off his own traveling cloak from his shoulders, he did not ask or wait for Olivia to put up a fight. He draped it squarely around her shoulders, and she clung to it with a flinching hand. It was larger, and more woolen than her own. Exhaling under the weight of it, her breath created a cloud of mist.

“T-thank you, y-you’re too kind.”

“The last thing we need is Andraste’s heroine freezing to death,” he grinned. “As for your question, I was out gathering some wood to widdle at by the campfire. Figured I’d keep myself busy with something other than killing if we are to be out here.”

Olivia’s eyes flickered to the amassed wood he had reclaimed in his arm, and she nodded with a breathy smile. “I suppose t-that’s g-good. I n-need all the p-ractice I c-can af-ford killing, I’m a-afraid.”

Blackwall, with his dark and sullen looking face and coarse head and chin of hair, reminded Olivia of her Father’s friends from the army. Stocky, dependable in nature, and in good humor. From what she knew of him, he, too, preferred people not know too much about him or what his interests were. Getting a glimpse of what looked to be a hobby seemed rather vulnerable, then.

“I think for your sake, Herald, we should return to camp. Harvesting materials after hours in a storm such as this seems hardly the kind of off-time you need.”

Olivia smirked, tucking herself in more with the dry cloak he had given her. “Whatever do you mean? Nothing feels more relaxing after closing three fade rifts and several bandits like a swim in the sea at night.”

As they began to walk towards the rocky incline trail that would take them back to the encampment, Blackwall chuckled again. “You are a peculiar woman, Your Worship.”

“Yes, but now I am a peculiar woman without a knife, so I think it best if I pretend to be normal. Peculiar women must always be ready to get themselves out of trouble.”

“Indeed. Though, I would not put it past you to get out of it with your bare hands and a smile.”

Olivia giggled, then, as her eyes tracked the terrain at her feet. The last thing she needed was another tumble to prove to her newest ally that she was, in fact, a clumsy moron. They hiked fast, though, and with no more accidents in store for her she was able to do so with no harm done. Blackwall was refreshing company to have after weeks of being tested and speculated about like some mysterious siren.

As they rounded up the hill to the encampment, Olivia glanced his way a final time.

“Thank you, Blackwall. I hope you have a restful evening.”

“You as well, Your Worship. Do get warm as soon as possible.”

She grinned and bowed her head once, before seeing herself off to her tent that she shared with Sera. Though, Sera was off somewhere, undoubtedly working on Tempest formulas or target practice. Olivia was not the only one who had nocturnal habits.

As she made her way, fending off the frigid air, she was cut off by Cassandra exiting the tactics tent. Olivia skidded to a stop, eyes blinking as she refocused on the environment around her rather than just the chill in her bones. It was then she realized she must have looked as though she had just been recovered from the sea, seeing as how Cassandra immediately looked alarmed when she turned to face her.

“What has happened?!” she asked at once.

Olivia’s brows raised high, like a kid who got caught sneaking out at night. She froze for a moment while her lips parted, thinking of how best to handle this. Cassandra’s criticisms were world-renowned at this point.

“I...uh…” Olivia fought the brittleness in her voice, “I went for a...swim.”

“A swim, at night? Here?”

“No, I meant in the sea.”

“I know that well enough.”

“Good, then, uh, goodnight!”

Olivia then tried to move past her, and as she got about several yards from where the Seeker stood tall she thought she might have gotten away with it. But, of course, when one could not stand with someone, they could most certainly follow behind.

“Are you being dishonest with me, Herald?” Cassandra said as she went after her, flanking her as Olivia enclosed on her tent.

“No, I am not. How can I lie to you? I am drenched in head to toe like a ship rat.”

“I was referring to the reason for you being this way.”

“What, you don’t understand how a woman can find herself wet in the still of the night, Seeker?”

Olivia turned around on a dime to confront her follower, making Cassandra stop in her tracks briskly lest they collide. She let out a sigh in return for Olivia’s flare for innuendo showing itself.

“Herald,” Cassandra insisted as they stood facing each other, “if we are to have an efficient reporte between one another, it is imperative that you are forthcoming with me. I cannot be the ally you need if you reject communication and sincerity at every turn between us.”

Olivia adjusted her death grip on the cloak with hands that were fastly becoming numb. She gave Cassandra a quiet once-over. Still dressed in her light armor ready for a fight, though no sword attached to her belt. How could she remain so comfortable in it from dawn until dusk as if it were a second layer of skin? She had to concede one thing, though: Cassandra did not look one bit phased by the cold. Dammit.

As she sized her up again -- a common sport between the two -- Olivia rolled her eyes and looked off to the side. This was not an easy surrender.

“I lost my harvesting knife in the water by the shore down the trail. I was collecting Black Lotus for requisitions. A wave…” she took a breath, “a wave took me down. That is all.”

Cassandra did not immediately respond. She was taken aback by Olivia’s concession, so swiftly delivered. Perhaps the cold and the sea would do wonders for the soul, after all.

“I...see. Are you…” she blinked a few times, “are you injured at all?”

“No. Just sad about my knife. It was a gift.” _I wish I had it so I may stick myself with it now to end this aggravating exchange._

Cassandra gave a solemn nod. “Very well...let me know if there is anything you need. Otherwise...sleep…” she hesitated, to the point where even Olivia in her embarrassment could notice. Was she that surprised that Olivia would not bite her head off this once? Even though she may have wanted to, it was far too late in the evening for such indulgences.

“I do not sleep, Seeker. If I did, I would say thank you. You may need to rest for the both of us. I would love to sit in giggle with you while we do each other’s hair and exchange stories of kissing boys, but I really must get out of these clothes before I take ill.”

“Oh...right,” Cassandra’s face reformed itself to one of a vigilant warrior, and not of an ally. She bowed respectfully and made her withdrawal, walking back towards the fire pit where Varric seemed to still be relaxing.

Olivia quickly retreated into her tent. Sliding the cloak off of her body and exposing herself to the open air, she went to work stripping out of her ruined gear. As more of her body became exposed, the faster she went, getting onto her knees on her cot and sliding out the tunic and pants she had packed. She had hoped they would be warm enough, but, she may have use for Blackwall’s cloak overnight as an extra layer of blanket.

Eventually, she found herself in dry linens and in bed. Sera arrived about an hour or so after she did, and upon entering their tent scrunched her nose with scowl.

“Maker, it smells like sea grass and feet in here,” she said as she plopped down onto her own cot. “Not surprising, this whole place stinks.”

Olivia took a breath, laying frozen in the fetal position underneath her amassed sheets. “I’ll tell you about it in the morning,” she grumbled, before rolling over to face the tent wall. Even though she did not sleep, she could pretend to for the sake of solitude. Sera taking a hint with no harm done, stripped out of her clothes and into her own set of night clothes. It wasn’t long before she was asleep -- her almighty snoring announcing it for all to hear. Olivia wasn’t bothered, though she had to fight off the urge to laugh when Sera would say silly words in her slumber.

When at last the morning arrived Olivia could see it as the light bore down on the tent walls. It was a relief to be done with hours of meditating, overthinking, and memories she would rather forget mixed with ones she clung to in the face of forgetfulness. Feeling it was appropriate enough to rise for the day, she slid out of her cot to see Sera very much asleep, tangled in her blanket with limbs curled and tucked in various positions. She snickered softly at the sight before rolling out a pair of underlayer clothes for her armor that hung outside under a tarp.

Buttoning and tying up loose strings, she pulled her hair out from her coat and let it remain down for the time being. Slipping herself diagonally out the tent curtain opening she saw that morning in the Storm Coast meant a trickle that would prelude the downpour. The light grey skies reminded her of Ostwick in the winter. She would make do, as she did then, to enjoy the weather for what it was willing to give.

As people moved around her going about their morning routines she first thought of visiting the tactics tent for any updates or reports. The tent, which was bigger than all the others but had stains and mud accrued on it now looked like an eye sore. But, it was easy to spot.

Her boot heels digging heavily into the ground as she meandered in, she found she was alone. Not even the Seeker was inside, perusing or re-reading reports for the fiftieth time. The table in the center of the space was small, but sturdy, with several maps and scrolls stuck in a barrel beside it. Olivia rubbed her face to rid herself of the fatigue weighing on her. When she opened her eyes, she saw a glimmer of metal on the corner of the table.

It was her harvesting knife, stuck into the wood by the tip of the blade. Clean and pristine even after a night of cutting and digging through muddied sea water.

Her eyes widened. Maybe she had fallen asleep, and this was the Fade -- though it would be the first time in many years she would fall for it so easily. She immediately approached, taking hold of the knife grip and yanking it out of the wood. It felt real in her hand, not as though it were hardened clay like objects could feel like in the Fade. As she held it out, eyeing her distorted reflecting in the blade’s silver metal, it all felt familiar.

This was real -- her knife, her most precious and loyal tool, was returned from the sea.

Then who was it who found it, knew it to be hers, and returned it to where she could find it? Maybe a scout had come across it onshore and thought it would be better to collect than leave behind.

Before she could continue her pondering, another person came through the tent drapery. The Seeker, who she was surprised to not see first, returned from wherever her attentions had been preoccupied.

“Good morning, Herald,” she said calmly as she moved past her, walking all the way to the far side of the table with her hands tucked behind her back. She looked rested and recollected, like how she always was before the peculiar interaction the night before.

Olivia’s eyes glanced up at her, and she held the knife to her abdomen protectively. “Yes, agh, morning Seeker.”

“I trust you are well?” Cassandra wasted no time or sentimentality on the moment.

“Yes, quite. It seems a noble soul has returned my knife to camp.”

“I see that. How fortunate.”

Olivia nodded, holding the knife out so as to stare at it again. Perhaps she could catch a break from life, and kindness was not yet lost to her. As her thumb moved along the weathered grip, a smile formed on her lips. This knife was a gift, indeed -- stolen from the backroom of a tavern where the safe was, full of coins and artifacts. The girls only wanted enough money to get them to the next town, and the Tavern owner was a real brute. But, Veronica couldn’t help herself; she took several small weapons to play with. The knife she had stuck into her bag, this knife, proved too puny for her tastes. But it was most ideal for harvesting and gardening, and thus most ideal for the one they called Gem.

“I wonder who found it, and when. It must have been impossible to see in the dark.”

Cassandra grinned out the corner of her mouth, shifting her weight from either foot. “Our people are capable. Perhaps it is best when the Maker blesses us that we do not question why, but embrace it as something we may yet deserve.”

Olivia smirked. “Perhaps. Or maybe Blackwall went back to find it for me. That reminds me, I must return his cloak to him. Are there any reports for me?” she then looked up, tucking the knife in the side of her waistband. Her lips remained parted as she awaited stern or serious orders, but Cassandra merely shook her head.

“Not this morning, no. That may change as the day goes on. Be sure to awaken Sera, for we must see ourselves out to the trail soon.”

“Oh,” Olivia inhaled, “yes, of course. I’ll be off then. Thank you, Seeker.”

Without much more fuss, Olivia turned and saw herself out. Leaving Cassandra to the table and all its portents of details, estimations, and numbers, her pleasant face faded. All she could hear in her mind was Leliana’s clever voice suggesting a change in strategy, but was this the right course, then? Considering that was only the second time Olivia had ever smiled in front of the Seeker, progress had been made. The smile was enough. She didn’t need to know the truth.

She was right, though -- the dagger was almost impossible to find in the dark. _Almost._


	8. Shape Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia and the allies return to Haven and the decision on whether or not to side with the Mages or the Templars looms on the Council Table. Tensions fray as Olivia refuses to concede her position, and she is left feeling on the ropes and without support. Though, most of the Council has not yet given up on investing in her point of view.

“The Mages need our help, or else we yield hundreds of people with magic to the Venatori. That could end in both our deaths and theirs.”

Olivia was pacing her side of the Council room. The argument had gone on for an hour, largely between her and the Commander, after whether or not to push forward with the Rebel Mages given the Magister had now taken control of Redcliffe. Of course, Cullen saw it as a sign that they should move on and in the direction of the Templars. But, after weeks of contemplating the risk of aligning with a Tevinter Mage and assimilating Mages into the ranks of the soldiers, Olivia wasn’t shaken.

This was the third time the Commander and Herald had reduced group discussion down to a war of wills. As Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra looked on, where once they would intervene or dilute the tension, it felt as though such a collision was futile to avoid.

“Maker knows what awaits us in Redcliffe if we engage. The reports say it all: experimental magic? Who’s to say that abominations are not being simply kept to unleash upon us should we attempt to do anything.”

“Not everything simply becomes an abomination when no longer under Chantry and Templar control, Commander!”

“How are we to know when Redcliffe has turned into its own stronghold for the Rebellion and now a Tevinter Magister?”

“Therinfal is a hostile territory as well, you said it yourself. There is nothing remarkable about two sides of a conflict solidifying their space.”

“Therinfal has more potential for us than Redcliffe to turn the tide of both the Rebellion and the Cause of the Inquisition.”

“Bullshit!”

Everyone paused to stare at the Herald, who was standing broadly in front of the door, arms tightly crossed at her chest. Cullen, on the other side of the table, looked as though he saw in her every regret he ever had in his life the last several years. When Cassandra had asked him to come on board, it was not with the promise of this being his working environment, or his comrade.

“We must remember what is practical, and responsible for the cause,” Cullen said in a lower tone and with gritted teeth, as if he were now the voice of reason in the argument.

Cassandra groaned, then. “Ugh, enough! This is ridiculous! Leliana, how can you stand by whilst this drags on?”

Leliana glanced the Seeker’s way, tilting her chin up. “A consensus must be reached by freedom of expression, Cassandra, and not silence.” Though, internally, Leliana was more intrigued than she would admit. Olivia’s disposition had been unraveling the more time passed, and if anything, these arguments were observations for the Spymaster. So what if Cullen had to tow the line for them to happen? He would have to become used to these arguments if he was to lead the collaborative forces of the Inquisition.

“You both sound like whining politicians,” Cassandra turned her attention to the two of them. Olivia did not even so much as flinch in her direction, she was too busy showing Cullen the proper way to stare down an opponent. Cullen, meanwhile, was stifling enough anger and a headache on top of it to flip the council table itself.

“If the Herald wishes to lead a branch of the Rebellion, she could have done so without allying with the Inquisition,” he growled, one of his gloved hands clenching.

“Apparently any and all organized behavior between Mages is considered rebellion. Are we not in agreement that this cause is supposed to bring justice to the dysfunction of the Empires? How are we to accomplish that by resurrecting the powers that have got us here?”

“Change does not happen over the course of a night, Herald. Are you to abandon those who sympathize with your cause simply because they did as you have, and managed to find a place within imperfect sects for which to carve out a life of some purpose!?”

“Oppression is no purpose, it is a crime!”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed even more than they already had been -- a feat that seemed impossible. Her irises were golden with ferocity and seeming to animate on their own accord. A Templar apologia was never worth her time, for any reason, but there she was. Every time she looked at the Commander she saw all the evil and hungry men that hunted her and her friends in the woodlands. How they would benefit from his lackluster notions of progress. It made her sick.

“The Mages will be our allies. I will not leave them behind in indentured servitude whilst I have surv--” she gritted her jaw, feeling the veneer of her being further eroding with her temper. “I will not be rethinking this. I am traveling to Redcliffe tomorrow morning, with or without the outfitting of an Inquisition contingent.”

Seeing no more reason for her to be in the room unless it was to at last confess to her life before the Conclave, she pivoted on her hip and turned for the door. Opening and slamming it shut behind her, she was gone. With her went the heaviness of the room, as well as the passion.

“Is she mad?” Cullen turned to the Ambassador, who had kept herself busy with writing.

“She is working from her perspective and knowledge as we all are, Commander,” she replied, adding a period to her written sentence.

“How is it we know nothing of her background but she talks like a radical we would have quarantined? The writing is on the wall!” he continued to press, albeit clumsily admitting to the stringency of the Order when it came to spirited Mages.

“We are by no means in the dark,” Leliana stepped closer to the table. “We know the Circle from which she is from, and that she and others fled in the wake of the Circles voting to disband. What is unclear is where they went, why, and how they managed to survive. All firsthand accounts say that the Ostwick Circle erupted into unsustainable brutality, prompting many to attempt escape at the risk of execution.”

“Yes, and Templar bodies bloodied the halls along with them,” Cullen added, placing his hand roughly on his sword grip. “It sounds much like the rest: unmeasured and disorganized violence.”

“From what I have read, Cullen, only one group died en masse from trying to run from the disaster.”

The room went still again, as it seemed Leliana was taking up the position Olivia had left of being Cullen’s rhetorical adversary. She was far less attached to getting Cullen’s goat, though, and for as direct as she pressed, she pulled back.

“The matter at hand is that the Herald wishes to pursue Redcliffe, and she will need a plan and reinforcements.”

“Indeed. I think it wise that we convene this evening, in order to outline what will be the most precise and effective plan,” The Ambassador chimed in, waving her quill-in-hand as she talked.

“I will go with her,” the Seeker at last interjected, hands going to rest on the Council table as she leaned over it a bit. “And I know most of the major allies will follow her even without our support.”

“She has quite the cult of personality, does she not?” Leliana smirked. “It is rather remarkable.”

Josephine bit back a smile. “All of the personnel are enamored with her, it is most entertaining to read in reports. Even with Mage prejudice. It will be most fascinating to see how the Imperial Court receives her.”

Cullen sighed. “We will not have to bother wondering what Orlesians care about if we do not survive to seal the Breach or end this madness.”

Cassandra nodded once. “And for that reason we must furnish her mission. We shall meet once more later this afternoon. Perhaps she will be willing to attend, if she knows we are to support her.”

Leliana and Josephine exchanged glances, before the Council meeting was fully dismissed. Cullen was the first to leave, eager to return to his duties training the army that Andraste’s chosen seemed to have nothing but contempt for. Then there was the Ambassador, less stressed of course, but mind spinning with ideas. That left Sister Nightingale with feet going slowly as she walked past the Seeker.

“I sense a shift in the air, no?” she said low in passing, a playfulness to her tone, before she too left.

Cassandra rolled her neck, the tension in her muscles making themselves abundantly clear. Once again, Leliana would not leave her be to navigate her dynamics. Beyond sensitivities, Olivia had a way forward and she wasn’t breaking on it. It was better than inaction, stalled by politics and ideological pining. Cassandra would most always favor decisiveness in the wake of an uneven choice.

But she hoped that this time she would not regret it because it aligned with the perspective of a rogue Mage with anger to vindicate.

\--

No walk would put enough distance between Olivia, the Council room, and her aggravating Commander, but surely she would try. Making a beeline past the courtyard, down through the gates and out on the training grounds, she took a sharp left turn toward the smith’s shop and corral where her horse was pleasantly munching away on hay. If only she could just shapeshift into a horse and pretend to not be here anymore, she would find so many problems resolved. They would dote on her and feed her, thinking her to be nothing more than a simple-minded beast of burden. No more reports, no more chastising, no more “Your Worship” nonsense. No more forgetting that her name wasn’t “Harold.” She could finally just run free.

As she neared the shed attached to the smith shop, she kicked at the snow-mixed dirt and growled. What on Earth was his logic? Did he had a brain full of peanuts or something? Surely, anyone would figure that Olivia of all people would never sign on for a Templar alliance. Then again, no one could. Because no one truly knew, beyond her time in the Circle, what her experiences with Templars truly were. That was her fault, wasn’t it. She chewed her lip, folding her arms as she shifted her weight from hip to hip. Her anciness did not go unnoticed.

“Is there something wrong, Your Worship?” Blackwall appeared out from the shop, wiping his hands with a dirty rag. Whatever he had been hard at work with, she did not know. All she saw was someone happily at work with something that mattered, who turned their attention to someone clearly distressed. She stuck her hands to her hips and tilted her shoulders towards him, peering at him from the side.

“Nothing of consequence, Blackwall. Thank you, though.”

“Given you’re a lady of consequence, I would imagine what upsets you is as well. Are you prohibited from sharing it?”

“I...well, no. But I’d rather not get into it.”

“Very well, if that is your wish.”

Olivia exhaled, releasing some tension from her ribs. He had deserved no salt from her mood, yet here she was. Maybe she should go out into the woods and knock down a few trees with some spells and get it all out. Given the recent string of cataclysms, though, maybe leveling half of a forest near the Inquisition stronghold was not the brightest of ideas.

“Blackwall, I…” she took a breath, closing her eyes for a moment. “I did wish to ask a favor of you. Not in this way, or in this mood, but, a favor all the same.” She then turned and took a few steps towards him.

“Of course, Your Worship, anything.” He then tossed the rag to hand on the fence rail.

Olivia rubbed the side of her neck. She didn’t think she would feel this nervous making a request such as this, but there she was, standing and feeling like a tiny fish in the pond just beyond the sparring grounds.

“I was wondering if...well. You know how you trained Grey Warden conscripts?”

“Sure.”

“Oh. Yes. Well. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to...put me through a similar kind of training regimen?”

Blackwall tilted his head, brow furrowing but not in an act of hostility. “I, uh, well,” he cleared his throat. “I suppose I assumed you already were, given your stature and responsibilities. Don’t Mages have their own form of...combat?”

“We do, but you see, I am rusty in that form as well. And before this, I spent a considerable time abroad and had to rely on other forms of self-defense than strictly magic. It was my hope that I could improve upon them, too, in addition to my casting.”  
“Forgive me, my Lady, but what use do you have for a warrior’s training?”

Olivia made eye contact with him, and her face softened. Was this really how people felt about Mages learning any other form of defense? That she was all well and taken care of by virtue of being able to enchant? Surely they never saw what Mages had to go through when expressing their talents was surely a death sentence. It made her wonder if she decided to bring dual-blades along for a mission instead of a staff, how her allies would react: if they would feel more or less confident in having her at their side, or if they’d see her as less capable.

“Many. And in any case, I could always be more in shape. If you are willing to direct me I’d be most appreciative. But I also understand if you’d rather not.” She straightened her posture, then, preparing for the let down.

Blackwall looked away for a moment, somewhat astonished at the forwardness of this young and spritely Mage. That was not a bad thing, though. She showed more feistiness and resolve than half of the recruits he had pass through his tutorship. A soldier knew a ready mentee when they saw one, even if they were a bit rough around the edges.

“I would love to, my Lady. Just send word on when you would like to begin. Dress for practice, and I’ll provide the sparring weapons.”

Olivia smiled, the first instance of it all day. “Oh, thank you, Blackwall! You have redeemed this morning for me. We can start after I…” suddenly, she remembered the plan she had made for better or for worse. Tomorrow morning bright and early for Redcliffe, with or without reinforcements. A bold claim to make but she wouldn’t back down now. Blackwall stared back at her, looking slightly confused as to why she cut herself off when she appeared exuberant only seconds prior.

“We can start after I return from my mission tomorrow morning,” she said at last, looking slightly more deflated. “Thank you again. I will not forget this kindness.”

They said their farewells with the utmost sincere kindness, and Olivia went back on her crusade to get as far away from Haven as her legs could take her. Returning to the grounds behind the gates, she had one more person to find and make a request of. Though this one would perhaps not be so delightful. Looking around the grounds but seeing no trace, she finally accepted that she would have to re-enter the Chantry. Steeling herself, she snuck in through the doors and scanned the main hall.

There, she found her. Walking up briskly, she entered through the columns to the left side of the wing.

“Madame Vivienne,” she said, coming up behind her.

Vivienne never looked surprised. As she turned to face her visitor, she merely grinned and placed her hand on the desk to her left side. On it, there were books, but not many. The scholarly resources at Haven left much to be desired -- these were most likely from her personal collection.

“Ah, the Herald coming to see me. I was beginning to wonder if a fade cloak spell of mine had gone haywire and she was unable to see me.”

Olivia swallowed her spit, and with it her pride. “Yes, I am afraid so. I assume you have overheard the arguments from the Council room, as well.”  
“My Dear, so has the entire camp. What concern is it to me?”

“Then you know I intend to leave for Redcliffe at first light. And you also know the Commander dissents from my perspective, and that I am facing the chance that my departure could be very much alone and without troop enforcement.”

Vivienne shook her head, her grin broadening a bit. “You certainly have talent for diplomacy.”  
Olivia inhaled roughly, running her hand through her hair as she fought the urge not to roll her eyes. Her and Madame de Fer had enjoyed little cheerfulness since their return from the Hinterlands, wherein Vivienne called Olivia out on her mysterious background. Olivia had done her part not to make relations worse, not only for the sake of the Inquisition, but out of sensitivity to Vivienne’s position as a Mage and the First Enchanter. Although her experiences aligned more heavily with Fiona’s sect of the conflict, Olivia felt a visceral commitment to Mages across the socio-political spectrum. If only Vivienne could make it a bit easier on her to do so.

“Look, I know I have not made the most sense in this role of mine. But, I am not about to let a Tevinter Magister gone mad have the manpower of hundreds of Mages. Even you can agree such a pairing left alone will pose dangers we cannot even conceive of now. You saw what he had harnessed at the Redcliffe Chantry. We need to release the Mages from their servitude and solidify an alliance. I want you to come with me for this mission.”

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed, focusing in on the sincerity in Olivia’s expression. She knew she was asking something absurd.

“What on Earth do I gain from inviting heretical Mages into our ranks along with you? A first-row seat to the circus of abominations they will usher into those gates?”

Olivia blinked as she stifled the defensiveness in her core. This would have to be good, and she knew it. Worth Vivienne’s ego and taste for political clout. But, this fight could not be faced with only one Mage who did not have the power or talent to face an entire throng of them. She needed backup, and she needed to smooth over this iced dynamic.

“If you come with me, I promise to disclose any and all information on my background. Why I was at the Conclave, who I was with, and what faction I was a part of. Whether or not the infamous Mage you and the Court have called the Black Dove may yet live and breathe.”

Vivienne’s brow went up sharply as she listened to Olivia’s offer. On the one hand, she knew well enough about the truth that an admonition would be little more than formality. But, honesty and candor in the face of gossip was not to be sneered at. What she suspected Olivia got wrong was Vivienne’s feelings if she were to be “The Black Dove,” or even just a rogue Rebel Mage. Ever since she first heard snippets of the stories, she wanted to know because she wanted to see if such a Mage woman could exist, and give her a peer worth contending with.

“Hm, an intriguing proposition, I must admit. You have clearly been cutting your teeth on the methods of a tactician. Very well, I will bite. But hear me now, Lady Herald: if you get me or both of us slain by the fanatics of Mages addicted on reckless power, you will be notified of my displeasure in the most irrevocable fashion.”

Olivia felt a twinge in her nerves at that threat. Vivienne knew how to get her point across, that much was certain. But it was a victory; a cautious victory, but one nonetheless. Now, she could feel better knowing that at least one capable ally would ride with her in the morning. As she said her farewell to Madame de Fer and exited the Chantry, she did the logistics in her mind: Solas would accompany her, surely, if she asked. His loyalties were not to the Inquisition hierarchy itself but to its cause, and his skepticism of Templar priorities would be enough of a fissure. But she needed someone who wasn’t a Mage to diversify the fighting prowess of her side.

As if summoned by her contemplations, Cassandra herself approached. Coming up the stairs to stand alongside her, Olivia couldn’t remember the last time they perched like this since the inception of the Inquisition itself, watching the Banners be draped over the buildings.

“Your Worship,” Cassandra greeted, a bit of unusual timidity in her voice that caught Olivia off-guard. “If I may have a brief word.”

“Yes, Seeker?” she replied, adjusting the fit of her gloves so as to look busy and preoccupied. Her time was precious after all -- at least, she wished it to come across as such.

“There is to be a Council meeting this afternoon. The advisors and myself would appreciate it if you could be in attendance.”

Olivia scoffed, rolling her eyes as she turned her gaze to the camp before them. “Why, so the Commander can flounder twice in the same day?”

“The Commander endures more than you know in order to serve. I would take caution with condemning him.”

“Ah, splendid, perhaps we can sit together in the same room whilst we stifle our traumatic experiences and inspire bonding,” she smirked humorlessly, folding her arms. “Why invite me to a meeting I am clearly a hindrance for?”

Cassandra folded her arms, too, mirroring the Lady Herald’s posture but with less animosity outright. From a distance they looked as though they were trying to intimidate the mountain into falling.

“Because we wish to support your excursion to Redcliffe, and the strategy cannot be formed without your insight. You are one part of the table, and your perspective is of importance.”

“Is it important because I am a valued and esteemed perspective, or because of the power that resides in my left hand?” she asked bluntly in return.

“It is the power you have that empowers you. I would not make such a request if I did not believe it productive. Will you attend, or am I to inform the Council that you have excused yourself from planning your own mission?”

Olivia sighed as she remained quiet, not giving a inch physically or verbally. The Council opting to support her initiative wasn’t exactly horrible news. It meant troops, supplies, and weapons would be going with her. It also meant allies that she wouldn’t have to negotiate with in fleeting, discrete conversations. She could feel the Seeker’s attention on her, the slight smugness of it. It seemed as though everyone opted to go for people’s egos when embarking on persuasion.

At last, she shook her head, a dry grin arising on her face. “Who am I to refuse, but a Mage with a chip on their shoulder and a world that needs her to pretend saving it saves her in return.”

Cassandra tilted her head in her direction. “If you act on your conscience, Your Worship, pretending may not be necessary.”

Eyeing her from her periphery, Olivia looked less than convinced at the Seeker’s glimmer of optimism. Heroism was not in her bones nor in her blood. This was a commitment based on the idea that the everyone would want everyone else to survive in the face of doom. Such fantasies were nice to listen to in Tavern songs, but they crumbled to dust at the slightest test of truth.

Her conscience be damned. The goal was to save her people from this certain demise, and at last put the Rebellion to rest without empowering the Templars or the Chantry as the victors. If she could do that, then what became of her mattered little.


	9. After The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the clash with Magister Alexius at Redcliffe leaves Olivia spinning. Triumphant and traumatized, she struggles to maintain her steady will. A solemn night at camp proves further tests of her patience.

She actually did it.

But not before she had to fight her way through some considerable bullshit on the part of Magister Alexius’s time magic. Turns out, being tossed through a time vortex which dropped you a year in the future in a post-apocalyptic landscape was beyond the pay grade for Inquisition agents.

As she sat on the ground beside the fire at the farthest encampment they could manage -- her orders, though she was polite about it -- she hugged her knees and tried to forget all she had seen. The red lyrium lining the walls and doorways, seeping into her subconscious like a parasitic entity. Finding her allies: Cassandra, Vivienne, and Iron Bull, imprisoned and corrupted by it. They were doomed, having endured a year of violence and discord. All in the wake of the Inquisition’s failure, of her disappearance with Dorian into the portal.

Leliana’s tortured, sunken face haunted her peripheral thoughts most of all. The way her eyes didn’t shine as they used to, and were instead full of dread. Her disparaging remarks about Mages when she had once been so open and tolerant. The year had changed her, changed them all. She was hardened beyond repair. Her sacrifice so that they could get back through to 9:41 Dragon was her way of reclaiming a futile end. Olivia never wanted to realize such a scene ever again.

Her face had hardly changed its stoic, suppressed expression as she sat there for hours. No one wanted to approach her, be the one to have their head ripped clean off by a cutting comment or a hand of fire. They wandered and walked around her, leaving her be. She had become so detached from her surroundings that she almost forgot that they were in the Hinterlands at all. For once, the Herald who was known for her jovial nature and abundant laughter was burnt out beyond recognition.

But, she had won the Mages back from the brink. She had rescued them from a certain and miserable end at the hands of Tevinter cultists. She had done what she had sworn her life’s worth to be adequate for. Everything else could wait.

That is, except for a very pointed and unimpressed First Enchanter.

Coming towards her, and taking a seat at the bench closest to her, Vivienne was dressed in her resting clothes: silk and satin tunic shirt and pants. Rarely did she show herself out in the open like this, but for the Herald she would make a most purposeful exception.

“My dear, are you not yet roasted from sitting so close to the fire?” she asked, deceiving Olivia’s fear that she would be nothing but business and ask for her compensation in the form of her gutted life history.

“I am quite alright. It feels good to my magic, after so much exertion.” She sounded like a ghost haunting a campsite, rather than a human.

“I see. Well, if it is any consolation, you put on a capable show today.”

“Did I?” she replied in a monotone, not turning or flinching in the direction of her company.

“Indeed. You and the Tevinter Mage make quite the pair. I am intrigued to see how your feats will spread across the Kingdoms.”

Olivia sighed silently. “They can say whatever they wish of me. I did what I came here to do. That is what matters to me, underneath it all.”

Vivienne tilted her head as she sat back in her position, anchoring her weight with her hands on either side of her waist. This Mage had proven resilient, even as she fended off rumors of being rather untalented.

“Are you not at all concerned with the way the world perceives you, my Dear? It is after all just as capable of killing you as it is exalting you.”

“I have known both ends of that balance, and I can assure you, I would rather face the first for doing what I believe right, than indulge in the second by virtue of complicity.”

“A most noble and candid response.”

Olivia then broke from her frozen state, tilting her head towards Vivienne with her eyes still glazed over from her time spent staring blankly into the fire before her. “Have you come to criticize me some more, after softening me up first?”

Vivienne shrugged in the most poised fashion an Orlesian Mage could perform. Olivia’s standoffish attitude wasn’t unexpected, after what had transpired. In fact, she was surprised she was this tame. Traveling through time, bending the fabric of reality itself, was hardly a casual experience.

“My dear,” Vivienne offered, “you battle with the demons that come with being an anomaly, and yet you reduce those around you who wish to aid your cause to the caricatures they, themselves battle with as you do with yours. Today was a victory for your gambit, but tomorrow is uncertain. Will you recoil as you have done so far and hope things fall into place, or will you stake your claim and reject hypocrisy?”

Olivia blinked slowly, the tiredness in her eyes weighing themselves heavily. Vivienne was right, and even she in her distant mental state could admit to such. Perhaps she had crossed boundaries she shouldn’t have. After all, she had the assemblage of an entire encampment surrounding her, as they had done when she walked into the heart of Redcliffe poised for conflict and whatever it would bring. Lives were ready to be lost on her order, and she couldn’t hide from it.

“I apologize, Vivienne. It was wrong of me to disregard you for simply having your own perspective. I must learn from others, and not admonish them. Especially my fellow Mages.”

Vivienne rested her hand on her lap. Such a rarity, to have an apology from someone uplifted by status and fable. Olivia was young, but she wasn’t entirely foolish, after all.

“Your forgiveness will be achieved by how you proceed, my Lady Herald. But for now, take comfort in the fact that nothing else is expected of you tonight. It will not always be so.”

\--

After a couple more hours of lounging by the fire -- if it could be call lounging and not cradling herself -- Olivia relented. Making her way to her designated tent, she rubbed her face with both of her hands. Maybe getting out of her gear for the day would help her body feel lighter. Maybe then she could finally let the day go. Approaching her tent, she had already begun to unbuckle and untie certain parts of her vest and breeches. She expected one of the other female agents, perhaps a Scout or soldier to be sharing the tent with her. Though, when she pulled away the tent drape and stepped inside, she flinched as though a giant snake had been awaiting her.

“Agh!” she said, clutching the front buckle of her vest that had come undone. “What are you doing in here?”

From the right side of the tent, Cassandra laid on her own cot with a book in hand. A book, of all things? What for? Olivia had more questions than answers flurrying through her head. On the list of assumptions she had made about this woman, being a bookworm had not been one of them.

Meanwhile, Cassandra’s eyes peered up from her reading material as if she would not be surprised by anything short of the Maker himself appearing on foot before them. The book she held was not the smutty literature she had claimed from Varric -- she knew better than to travel with it, and perhaps be caught by someone else. This was a book to get her through the time away from those novels she favored: a book of poetry and small prose she kept personally. Dressed in her tunic shirt and breeches, this was about as casual and relaxed as she ever got. It was also far more vulnerable than Olivia ever predicted seeing her.

“This is where I am to sleep. We were paired with the same tent. Such things happen.”

“I…” Olivia looked as though she had just seen a bird swim, “I did not receive notice that we were to share.”

“Perhaps they thought it no issue, unlike you, evidently.”

“I have no issue, I was just not warned.”

“And what, exactly, justifies you needing a warning for sharing sleeping quarters with me?”

Olivia looked away, finding herself fighting a losing battle that she wasn’t all that invested in to begin with. This was the first time the tents had been organized in such a fashion, with the Seeker and Herald sharing a tent. It made her wonder if taking on Dorian as an ally had disturbed the ratio. Or, maybe Vivienne insisted on a solitary tent. Either way, she wanted someone to blame for this.

“Nothing. I am fine, just so long as you are alright with me not sleeping.”

“I have survived worse, trust me.”

Cassandra rolled onto her side facing away from Olivia as she got to work undressing herself. Olivia felt conflicted the entire time -- to go from scarcely sharing a handful of individual conversations to being naked within several feet of her was jarring to say the least. But, rugged times called for rugged sensibilities. Peeling herself out of her vest, underlayer, and breeches, she was finally down to her sweaty and drenched smallclothes. Finding it unwise to keep them on, she slid them off as well, before reaching for her folded night clothes.

Once she had slipped into her linen pants and shirt, she went to work on her tightly braided hair. Catching a glimpse of Cassandra out the corner of her eye, the Seeker looked unconcerned, eyes deeply engrossed in her book. Perhaps she would be less annoying than she had proven to be in previous encounters.

Finally releasing her hair from its updo, she ran her fingers through its damp, sweaty strands and called it good. Maybe she would steal away in the morning to bathe in the lake once again and forget she had ever shared a tent with the Seeker. That meant, what, six or seven hours remaining between now and then? She could survive that after the day she had.

Sliding under the blankets, she let out a hefty sigh as she settled into her flat and unforgiving cot. She had her back to Cassandra, making them both turned away from each other’s existences. For a moment it seemed as though that would be all. But, of course, Olivia would not be let off the hook to easy. Never that easy.

“You did well today,” Cassandra remarked, allowing a degree of praise for once in an eternity.

Olivia raised a brow, her eyes having been closed since she settled into her position. “Oh? Did I?”

“Yes. Do you disagree?”

“Does it matter?”

Cassandra’s brow furrowed, but she did not turn over to look back at her. “Do you dismiss your own opinion so readily?”

“On the contrary, I think it the only one that matters in all of Thedas.” Olivia nestled in deeper into her pillow that left a bit to be desired in terms of plushness. Though, it beat the ground of the woods any night.

“At least you have finally admitted to such convictions,” Cassandra said as she adjusted her position, laying on her back with her book held above her chest. Finding the line where she had left off, she continued to read thinking that was the end of it. Olivia hardly sounded one for conversation.

About an hour passed in silence before Cassandra had taken to gasping and sighing in reaction to her reading. Hearing her make noise, Olivia’s eyes shot open. This was proving more of an bizarre learning experience than anything she had endured at Haven, or in the Circle for that matter. Not only did Cassandra read, but she was that kind of reader: the one who felt as if her personal, physical reactions mattered to sheets of paper with printed script on them. How did she get away with this without teasing or blackmail from compatriots?

“Entertained?” Olivia muttered as she tucked her arms under her pillow.

Cassandra had forgotten that Olivia did not sleep, she was so quiet. Hearing her question, she immediately felt a bit insecure. She would never show it, though.

“Yes, in fact. I am.”

“Is it a love-making scene, then?”

Cassandra scoffed low. “How is that any of your business?”

“It is, since you are borderline narrating it.”

“It is not a lewd scene. It is poetry.”

“Oh, I stand corrected. It is lovemaking but with a rhyme.”

Cassandra glared at the back of Olivia’s head, then. The sweet and gleeful Herald had an acidic tongue when she willed it. She snapped the book shut, then, finding herself suddenly not in the mood for indulging in romance.

“For someone from a Circle known for its prolific education of its Mages, you seem most affronted by literature,” she said as she pulled her sheets over her chest, setting the book off on the floor beside her.

“Being educated does not necessarily mean you enjoy all the subjects you learn.”

“Nor does it promise proper appreciation.”

Olivia rolled her eyes, her legs squirming a bit with restless tension. “I understand poetry enough to see through its guise. It does not interest me because it does not speak to my experience.”

Cassandra turned her head, then, utterly affronted by Olivia’s repugnance for something she valued so ardently. No wonder they had such a difficult time getting along, their dispositions were like oil and water.

“Poetry is derived from human experience. To suggest disconnection is to feign inhumanity.”

“Very well, I am not human. Tell the Chantry I have finally admitted to it so that they may burn me at long last.”

Cassandra felt a pang of defensive anger in her gut, then, at the invocation of the Chantry’s negligence. Even though she had left both Orders she had dedicated her life to for the Inquisition, it still stung to hear disparaging criticisms she felt were without proper context or understanding.

“Does your commitment to no sleep require you to argue in the meantime, Your Worship?” she asked bluntly.

“No, that would be a consequence of your presence, specifically, I’m afraid.”

“On what grounds?”

“On this ground, this muddy, uneven, slightly itchy ground that I will surely collect insect bites from sleeping near.” Olivia’s fatigue was speaking for her at this point. Even as she remembered Vivienne’s advice to stop cutting her allies down a peg in self-defense, it was a tough habit to break. Especially after the marathon of a day she had dealt with. Whoever arranged sleeping matches clearly did not have the full story as to why such a pairing was most unwise for this particular night.

She heard Cassandra smirk, though she knew it could not have been out of humor. In an odd way, it made her feel guilty.

“Forgive me, Seeker. My mind...it is still reeling from the events of the day.”

Cassandra did not immediately respond. The apology was unexpected, given the vitriol in Olivia’s voice that had rung out so sharply. She didn’t know if it would be best to let their interactions die there, or possibly provoke another argument. But, in a moment of slight impulsivity, she boldly went onward.

“...Thank you,” she replied, thinking that might be the right balance between silence and expression.

Little did the Seeker know that on her side of the tent, Olivia was fighting back tears. The way in which one trial had hardened her to the point where she had to apologize to two different people in the same evening scared her. She was always the one who smoothed over hostilities amongst her friends, and now she administered them without provocation. What had Cassandra said besides a compliment? something that she did not toss around every other moment, an admittance that mattered all the more coming from someone who had seen and done heroic things?

All the while the images -- the words, the people, the pain -- still played out like lights reflecting on walls. It was in these times she wished she could trust sleep not to further devastate her, for she dearly wished to escape the waking world for a few hours. She wished Naomi could walk into the tent and lay next to her. She wished she could play with her hair and tell her sweet things, sweet, kind facts about the world despite so much cruelty. Or, perhaps Theia could wrap her in her own blanket and promise her she’d protect her in the face of anything. Then Veronica could cuddle up against her back and snore like a fiend. Roslyn, out on guard somewhere, but surely would stop by or check on them.

She cradled her arms criss-cross against her hollow-feeling chest. Even as so many people paid attention to her now, all the people who congratulated her on a swift and decisive victory, Olivia felt nothing but alone. Alone and inadequate for the challenges that were becoming more unavoidable by the day. The more she refused to shy away from her role, against her instincts and will to survive, the more confined she was to seeing it through.

Hearing nothing more from her tentmate, she sniffled softly and wiped her face against her pillow as the first light tears streamed down from her eyes.

What she didn’t see was that contrary to her hopes, Cassandra had not yet fallen asleep. Dreams and their harborings troubled her, too, though she had chosen to battle them head on most nights. Hearing Olivia’s brittle inhale, she tilted her head quietly in her direction. She knew all-too-well what that sound signified. She had spent many a night like this throughout the years and knew even in the slightest, fleeting sound of distress what the truth was.

But it wasn’t her place to presume an invitation into Olivia’s weaknesses. Feeling caught between a rock and a hard place she remained quiet. Perhaps what the Herald desired most was to have no witnesses, to believe that she could suffer in solemn privacy for one moment longer. Cassandra wasn’t good with words, anyway, to her knowledge -- she could appreciate them artfully tailored into lines of exquisite poetry, but when it came to offering empathy and nurturing comfort, that was where the boundary lay. Bluntness, forwardness, decisiveness. That was her mode of expertise.

Staring up at the tent ceiling as it waved and hummed against the evening winds, she wondered just what Olivia’s expertise was besides defying expectations and tricking people into believing she wasn’t more than meets the eye.


	10. Full Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awakening the morning after the Redcliffe conflict, Olivia takes some initiative with her new found motivations for seeing that the world be saved. Some ingredients of her past prove useful even in the most extraordinary of circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW for discussion of sex and remembering an encounter.

Her first time was in a linen closet, up against the wall where a Chantry symbol hung nailed into the brick and mortar. The same symbol that was branded on foreheads of the tranquil amongst their ranks. His name was Claudius, though his friends called him “Di” as if it were the natural nickname to have. He was an apprentice like her, same age too. She hand-selected him as the person with whom she would share this experience with, and as she felt her back grading against the stone, legs wrapped around his waist, she felt more or less satisfied with her choice.

It had been a little more than a year since she had been sent to the Circle at the age of sixteen. Everyone thought her obscure and sheltered because of her age -- surely, she would have had to come from a family who could have afforded to keep her tucked away for so long. The first months at Ostwick were misery: catching up with her age group of apprentices who had been there for years, many of them more than a decade at that point. The books were familiar, the teachers as well. She spent many a long night reading through the lower-level books, page by page, feverishly absorbing the knowledge until her eyes couldn’t stay open any longer and she couldn’t find candles to replace hers with once they’d burn down to the bottom.

After a year she felt more comfortable in her talents, but the feeling of being behind never ceased. She was always chasing an ideal spot, searching for a way to get ahead. Little did she know that most days her peers were in awe of her dedication, and resentful of the way certain teachers favored her. There was gossip that she had seduced anyone from Templars, to the teachers, to fellow apprentices who would do her bidding. No one could catch up so fast and be leading in certain subjects after a year without doing something behind the scenes to encourage cooperation from superiors. Hers had become the most lazily-earned Queen Bee reputation.

Things came to a head when she received a letter from home saying her Father, the one silver lining to family her entire life, had passed away unexpectedly after a short illness. She could still remember the morning, sitting alone in the sleeping quarters she shared with several other young girls. It was the first word she had heard from home in months and there was no question of how she was or a sincere request to write back. Only the news, and outlined arrangements for her to travel back to the Capitol for the funerary services. It was important to put on a concise ceremonial show: it was to be a soldier’s, and not just a nobleman’s pyre burning, after all.

Olivia became sober in her self-awareness, then. It was as if the Orlesian blood in her veins raised in mutiny, hypersensitive and exacting. If she was to go home -- something only noble-born Mages seemed to have the privilege of doing, something she did not want but would be sneered at nonetheless for being spoiled -- she would go home dirtied. She wanted to sit beside her Mother and know that she had destroyed the only thing about her she had ever been truly invested in. And so, assuming the power of her reputation, she made her moves on the apprentice named Claudius.

First there was flirtatious words in passing, and stares across the room during lectures. Then, there were exchanges of small tokens: flower blossoms from the centerpieces in the hall, incense sticks from the prayer altars, notes with coded words in case they were found by Templars. This only took less than a week for her to orchestrate. She knew she was successful when he started sending her ripped pages from poetry books, lined and annotated. She would toss them under her bed as soon as they had been slipped under her door.

Then one day they had wandered down a corridor after studying in the library. It proved too hard to focus for the poor guy with Olivia’s hand sliding down the inner side of his thigh with each turn of the page. They had to find somewhere that wasn’t patrolled by Templars looking to stop lewd relations; sex between Mages meant possible pregnancies, and with that the birth of children from two magically-inclined parents. Olivia wasn’t interested in any of that nonsense, she just wanted to get it over with.

So, when they found a strange and desolate linen closet, she took her chance and pushed him in. They were messy, clumsy, and unsophisticated. The foreplay was nonexistent, but she didn’t have a need. All she wanted was to actual act, the final, irrevocable entrance. He did well enough; she only caught herself staring up at the ceiling wondering how many minutes would pass by twice. It hurt of course, a white-hot pain in her core that almost evoked a tear from her eye. But she had spent every night that week pouring them from her eyes and into her pillow, and scarcely had enough left in her now.

Where her tears had emptied, he filled her. If only for moment.

She never spoke to him again after their exchange. The following morning she was sent off to the Capitol, and refused to read his letters. Even Theia and Veronica would come to her after she had returned, asking what had transpired to make him scowl in her direction every time they were in the same room together. She merely shrugged, smirked, and said he must have had the wrong idea as to what kind of Lady she was.

“Most unfortunate, since he is rather handsome.”

Seeing her smug response, Roslyn chuckled and bit into her small apple she had stolen from the kitchens. Chewing robustly, she nodded in their Gem’s direction. “She screwed him good and left him begging, is what she did.”

\--

Cassandra didn’t snore. That was the one saving grace, to be sure. Even in sleep she was stoic and measured. For Olivia it meant peace and quiet whilst she dealt with the tumult in her head for better or worse. For all of Sera’s noisiness, sometimes it proved a much-appreciated distraction. This arrangement was stone cold quiet. For a brief time she contemplated sleeping, but she was not about to show the Seeker what she was like. The possible flailing, crying, screaming, and grab for a dagger would not be good for the morale between them that was on death’s door to begin with.

This morning was a bathing and swimming morning, before they would depart back to Skyhold guiding the Rebel Mages with them. It would be a long voyage and tensions would be flared. Imagining Cullen’s face at the Chantry steps as she brought back hundreds of Rebellion-steeled Mages made her both tickled and sore.

Stepping out dressed in her breeches and coat unbuttoned, she made her way towards the morning fire. The embers were weakened, and someone had neglected to place new wood. Seeing no one around to stop her, she set down her bottles on the adjacent bench and went for the pile of firewood. Picking up a log in each hand she dragged her feet towards the pit and tossed them in the center, the noise disturbing the otherwise quiet environment and turning a few heads.

Dusting off her hands, she reached her right one towards the pile and twisted her wrist slowly. As she moved, the embers of the dying fire livened and crackled with new vigor, reaching around and embracing the new, fresh wood to burn. Revived at last. Olivia may not have been the most equipped or talented Mage in a fight, but she had many months practice keeping a fire from going out.

She lingered for a minute, hands on her hips. Tiredness was wearing her down; one of these nights she would have to bite the bullet and sleep. But not now, not whilst she had an audience, even if that audience was simply one unnerving Seeker.

“Ah, a savior in more ways than one,” Vivienne came up behind her, arms folded. And so, the person she had talked to before bed became the first one to speak with her in the morning light.

“Yes, apparently,” Olivia managed to reply before yawning. As she covered her mouth, Madame de Fer spoke once more.

“I suppose it would be too harsh to ask for you to keep your end of our deal in this moment?” she took a step forward so as to be shoulder-to-shoulder with the Herald, eyes locked on the fire as well.

“Not at all, Vivienne. In fact, I am surprised you gave me this long of a rest.”

“Surprises abound, these days. So, what is it to be, then?”

Olivia took a breath, rubbing her arm a bit to invigorate some warmth somewhere on her body. The heat of the fire was not yet enough to relax her or warm her face.

“First, Madame, I have an addendum to our agreement should you be open to it.”

“Oh? And what exactly has your little blonde head devised?”

Olivia turned to face her then, hands falling to her sides. “My first year in the Circle, I read most every book and Tome I could scavenge to catch up with my class. I arrived at a late age, you see. My teachers were most kind, including one that affectionately spoke of an apprentice they had many years ago. One she referred to with an Orlesian term of endearment. I did not find out her name until she lended a treatise she had written on alchemical theory for me to study. The titular page was signed by her, a most charming name.”

Vivienne’s taciturn shell looked to be cracking as Olivia told her story. Her former mentor, a woman she remembered well and fondly. One who was slain by apprentices in the wake of the Circles disbanding. She had yet to give up her teaching profession, nor her penchant to favor apprentices whom she saw as underdogs. Just as she had picked Vivienne, in all her promising obscurity, she picked Olivia. Olivia of all the Mages, who would eventually stand here with her on the precipice of disaster. Her mentor sure knew how to pick amongst the flock.

Even with the desire to understand, Madame de Fer simply sighed longfully. “What is your point, Herald?”

“My point is, I remember that treatise well enough to know you had a mind for the radical and sensational, even as you discount concepts such as time magic. I remember the passion that seemed to bleed through the ink. Looking at her now, I can hardly imagine that the original author has simply let all that fortitude fade into obscurity. I think we may yet find common ground to do the things we wish to do, and push further where your treatise and my education were cut short.”

Olivia was too drained to feel insecure or bashful about what she wanted. Vivienne was formidable and intelligent to make enemies with, and indeed, she did not wish to regardless of what she had to offer. Standpoint differences aside, their collusion would be most indominable. Olivia may have been a daughter of the Empire, but Vivienne was a Mistress and an Official of it. Her fall happened around the time of her rise. Perhaps the sun and the moon could combine in their ambitions to re-color the sky.

As Vivienne gazed back at her, their eyes shared what their minds seemed to understand without verbal acuity.

“You wish a working relationship with me, then? As if I would agree to such an arrangement like I depend upon its advantages.”

“I am asking for an alliance worth our time and energy, Vivienne. That is all. If you wish to sit by and watch as the Inquisition does nothing to fortify an authority over the future of Mages across Thedas besides saving them from the Imperium’s grasp, by all means. I on the other hand need something to hope for besides survival, now.”

With that, Olivia grabbed her bottles of herbal soaps and nodded in goodbye. Though, she was not to get away that easily; she only made it a few hurried steps before she was called back.

“And what of your end of the deal, Herald?” Vivienne asked decisively, her folded arms constricting further against her chest as she leaned onto one hip.

Stopping in her tracks and remaining still for a moment, Olivia rolled her eyes closed. This was going to be like ripping off a taped bandage over and over again. But, a deal was a deal, and if Vivienne was going to comply it would be hard-won but worth it. Turning around to face her one last time, she opened her hazel gold eyes and stared back at her ally and now critical confidant.

“I do not know for sure whether all that has been said is true to what actually happened. But, for all intents and purposes, yes. The mysterious Mage you have come to know as the Black Dove is me.”

Vivienne raised a brow, otherwise looking unphased. “And the Conclave?”

“I was following a friend who was in attendance on behalf of her mentor. I--we, thought her in danger. Together we were rogues for several months. I did things to survive which I will never apologize for.”

There was a silence between the two women as Olivia finally testified to the ghosts of who she was before the Breach erupted, destroying the future of Thedas as they knew it. She didn’t know what to expect -- would she be egregiously offended? Would she laugh hysterically? Madame de Fer was an unpredictable tour de force. But, as saw the slight softness in her eyes remain unchanged, a sliver of her inner self began to hope.

Vivienne tilted her head. “And why is it that you have neglected to disclose this to the allies?”

“Because I did things that no Chosen of Andraste would have done. Those salacious crimes you have heard, some of them...they aren’t untrue. My hands are bloodied, and I am not repentant. Murderous will and undaunted sin do not a heroine make.”

At her way with words, Madame de Fer smirked. “My dear, even Andraste herself was an adulterer. If you think your hands must be clean for you to take the weapon being handed to you, you are sorely misguided. We are all a villain in someone else’s story -- it is our responsibility to ensure theirs are not the stories that prevail.”

Olivia looked up from her armful of bottles and hair comb. Vivienne’s words were actually comforting to a degree, if not utterly daunting. The power with which she spoke was unmistakable, but it also made her feel like attempting to copy it would be unwise. She would have to find her own voice, somehow, after years of being stripped of it.

That was not to happen on this day. For now, she would take one step at a time, and submerge her head below the water to escape the world above her little blonde head as Vivienne so precisely described it.


	11. Under Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returned from Redcliffe, the Inquisitor finds herself settling into her new constructed routine, if ever-strenuously. Her first morning training with Blackwall reveals some of the skills she had left in the margins of her character, and once again she finds herself coming face-to-face with the consequences of her past and the expectations of her future.

“How many?!” she yelled from across the open field lined with snow-covered trees.

“You heard me. Five.”

“But...!”

“Did I ask for constructive feedback, recruit?!”

Olivia took a step back. Blackwall could be quite scary when he wanted to be. Especially when his voice carried like a roaring bear across yards of snow-caked ground. Across the distance she stood dressed in light armor for conditioning purposes. She had become used to the heaviness during long days on missions, but Blackwall was giving her a run for her money.

“Are you going to stand there and freeze, or make yourself useful?” he barked again as she hunched over with her hands on her thighs. She hadn’t eased her breathing since they started her training session about a half hour prior. He was testing her resilience from the get-go.

“Yes, yes, of course!” she huffed, waving her hand in the air as she lowered her gaze to the ground. “I’m on it!”

Another brief moment to muster energy, before she then took off running the perimeter of the field in a heavy-footed jog. A warm up run was the first thing in the morning, followed by carrying a stack of large rocks from one end of the field to the other one by one, and exercises in crawling, tumbling, and tackling with precision. Underneath her armor her elbows, hips, and knees had taken swift hits and ached already. And this wasn’t even sparring.

As Blackwall watched her run, ever so often he would yell at her to pick up her feet and relax her jaw. Running and stamina training required a nimbleness, and she had the makings for it, but something about the way she carried herself -- the lack of confidence -- held her back. She needed to be swift and decisive, and stop acting like everything she did was a crime of life. He wondered how she could be so capable and attentive, all the while hold herself back at every turn. It wasn’t about an either/or controlled or uncontrolled state, it was about finding a balance between the two.

She did what she was told, though, once she was convinced. After a while of waiting for her to finish five laps, she came to the patch of grass where she had started and damn-near fell to her knees. Just as she was about to, Blackwall sounded off.

“Don’t you dare! Stay on your feet, soldier. Look alive.” His hoarse accent was more pronounced when he was giving orders. He walked over to her know, carrying a canteen of water. She turned around, rocking on hip to hip as she huffed in and out, her cheeks and forehead red from the cold.

“I’m...I’m fine…” she exhaled weakly, reaching and taking the canteen he held out to her. “Really this is...this is just...ugh, Maker!” Olivia then opened it and poured damn-near half of its contents down her gaping mouth. Then she generously let some splash onto her face. Cold be damned, Blackwall remarked to himself.

“I’ll give you a minute to collect yourself, and then we’ll get to footwork,” he said calmly, folding his arms. “You need to build up your stamina and your dexterity.”

“I feel flexible enough, I just haven’t had the time,” Olivia replied, swallowing the last bit of water she had withheld in her mouth.

“Flexible with a staff and flexible with a blade are different things, Herald.”  
“I am flexible with knives.”

Blackwall tilted his head, then, curious now. “You’ve practiced with blades before?”

Handing back the canteen to him, Olivia rubbed her doused face to prevent frost from taking over her complexion. Still breathing out of her mouth, but quieter now. “Yes, I have. No one hands them to me anymore. They think I only know how to work a Staff and its blade.”

Huffing in his throat, Blackwall turned to face the stack of weapons he had brought out to the field with them. “There is a set of dulled dual-blades in there, I remember. Perhaps we can see what you recall.”

Olivia smirked, placing her hands at her hips. “Now I feel under pressure to show off.”

“Good, you need to know how to work under pressure.”

They then walked over to the weapons pile, and as they drew nearer she could see the sheathed pair of blades he talked about. It had been a while -- months now -- since she had handled them, but when her and the girls were wayward she knew her pair like the back of her hand. Roslyn didn’t believe in being a singularly trained woman, let alone Mage -- her background as the daughter of a Warrior taught her as much. When she would do her exercises from her childhood learning with her brothers, Theia and Veronica often joined in, as did Olivia. She was always the most reluctant participant. But, with the more dangers and enemies they faced, the more she embraced it as a necessity. Magic could do many things, but it could also fail you.

As Olivia reached and picked up the sheathed knives, she could almost hear Roslyn’s brusque tone egging her on to put up a girly fight. It took a lot to get Olivia out of her prim shell. Once she was, though, she was fiendish in her style. Holding the metal in her hands excited her, and her magic entangled with it. She remembered the times when she stabbed and set men’s heads on fire with alternating hands. For such desperate times, there were moments when she felt lethal as anything in the world.

But Blackwall was nothing like those men, and she had waned in her skill. Unsheathing one and then the other, she held them ready at her sides, elbows bent as she turned to face him head on. He had picked a sword and small wood shield, similar to the round one he had on his arm when she finally tracked him down in the Hinterlands. He looked unimpressed, but encouraging.

“Well, let’s see what you’re made of, blondie,” he teased, swinging the sword counterclockwise in his hand grip.

Olivia chuckled and began to side-step, setting them up more flatly and equally in the middle of the field space. Playful now, she swiveled the blades between her fingers for one full rotation. Rusty, but not a lost cause.

“Have mercy on a worn out woman,” she retorted, standing with her feet shoulders width apart.

“A worn out woman? Of course. You? Never,” he smirked, before getting into ready position. One last smile from Andraste’s chosen, and then it was on.

An exhale, and he took his first swing at her from over his shoulder downwards. He was quick for being stocky and broad, and the looming weight of his move intimidated her a bit. But she wasn’t going to be phased that easy. Leaning onto the right side, she dodged the path of the sword and made one full turn counter-clockwise, spotting with the side of his armor as she readied her alternating blades for a side-swipe.

Her blades were met with his shield, and she felt one get stuck in the wood. Quickly, she lifted her leg and kicked her boot heel against it, using the momentum to dislodge it. Once she had pushed herself back and freed her blade though, he was coming at her with another broad swing from her left-hand side. He was growling as he swung, now.

Dropping into a crouched stance she sent her right arm out from her side, swiveling and sliding herself around as she outstretched her leg. An attempt to trip him up. Just as she was about to make contact he jumped clean over her lower leg, heavy weapons, armor and all. Feeling herself out of breath, the light of the sky above her was shadowed by a third swing, this time slicing directly downward for her. She reached over her head, crossing her blades in a X formation to catch the sword in their crosshairs. As they collided, she knew her strength was no match for his in a crouched position, but she gave it her all: her legs anchoring her push upwards against the sword.

She growled, too, now, as she felt her side starting to give way. She needed a way out and fast. At once, she leapt to the right, shoulder and side landing in the snow as she did a tuck n’ roll like he had her practice earlier in the morning. The snow blinded her left eye as it caked on her face and in her hair, but she managed to roll onto her feet.

Blackwall had been going slower and more thorough than his fighting style was like, in order to match her lack of practice. That, and he wanted to better evaluate her technique. It was rough and resourceful, but she wasn’t untalented. 

They went back and forth one more time directly, sword clashing with knives as they duelled. Olivia never let a swing come at her un-countered, but she never truly left a defensive position. She was fighting like an opportunist, keeping herself alive whilst either backup arrived or she could spot a weakness to capitalize off of. This meant she would more than likely fight dirty, or unskilled, to live. Everything about her conduct told him she had been through some tough times and learned self-defense out of necessity rather than for hypothetical circumstances.

He finally brought the round to an end, scarcely breaking a sweat whilst Olivia had to once again recollect her breath. She looked and felt panicked, not prepared.

“You are capable, but you’re flying by the seat of your breeches,” he judged, sheathing his weapon. “Where did you learn how to wield blades?”

Olivia wiped her mouth with her gloved wrist, looking out at the mountains beyond their little sparring area before returning her golden eyes to him. “I learned...well, from a friend.”

“I can see that well enough. Were they a trained formally?”

“She almost was, but then they found out she was a Mage and she was sent to the Circle.”

Blackwall’s eyes narrowed a bit, now understanding where the trend of feisty grit must have come from. “I see. Well, we’ll work on it. I don’t know as much about blades as I do about swords, but you have much to improve.”

She sighed, then, tossing one of the blades in the air spinning and catching it on the grip with thoughtless ease. “I always do, it seems,” she said with a slight tone of self-deprecation. Grabbing the leather sheaths on the ground, she began to return her weapons to where they belonged.

“Your Worship,” Blackwall said as he observed her, “if I may inquire, how many hours a day do you spend practicing skills you think yourself inadequate in?”

Olivia didn’t stop her task, but her eyes blinked as she contemplated her response. Her mouth scrunched to one side of her face, too, which surprised the Grey Warden in her company in its quirkiness. “Well, I have this in the early morning with you, and then Solas and I typically practice Magic in the midday, when the sun is brightest and I feel most centered by its heat. Then, I do Apothecary work with Adan and work on my experiments. The library here is meager, but I am working my way through a couple books on alchemical and…”

She then stopped when she realized he had begun to stare at her like she was reciting an entire army’s worth of duties rather than the daily routine of one person. She chuckled at the look on his face.

“What? I haven’t exactly the easiest of jobs, Blackwall.”

“I know that, my Lady. I was simply wondering if you knew it, as well. If I may be blunt, I suggest you start dictating what weapons you are to arm yourself with, rather than allowing others to determine on your behalf.”

She glanced his way, then, chin lowered as she nervously gripped the leather on the dagger sheaths close to her stomach. He was right, and she was insecure about it. She had began to fill her days with intensive training, especially after the conflict at Redcliffe, and yet she hadn’t allowed herself to gain substantial confidence from it. Days blurred into one another like rehearsals for the same scene in a play or opera. It reminded her of her private school days in Val Royeaux, the endless repetition and meditation on the same skills and practices that would produce a well-rounded Lady.

Now, she was trying to produce a well-rounded fighter, scholar, and leader. It was a bit more intensive and high-stakes than being a girl in a finishing school.

“I know often, though I forget just as much. Thank you, Blackwall, for reminding me,” she said with a smile as she wiped the sweat off her forehead.

“Anytime, Herald. Do not forget to stretch out your muscles, you will be plenty sore afterward.”

“I will. I’ll see you later during supper hours?”

Blackwall grinned and nodded her way, watching her as she grabbed some of the sparring weapons to take back to the smith’s shop. “Sure. Just don’t eat all the legs off the chicken, this time.”

Olivia tilted her head back and laughed, tucking the swords underneath her arm. “I swear it wasn’t only me! The man was lying when he said he saw four on my plate!”

“Yeah, yeah. Get a move on!” Watching her as she left, a smile and chuckle on her face, Blackwall couldn’t help but appreciate her whimsy. Olivia had proven herself to be a unique woman, bound by principle as well as imagination. His heart ached knowing that she was the kind of woman who would probably scowl or weep at what he had done with his own life. Though, when she was around, it was easy to forget the melancholy of past mistakes. Her notorious laugh was enough to drown out the concerted calamity of a battlefield.

His contemplation was cut off by a sudden realization, and he turned to where she had walked off towards, losing sight of her figure a bit in the sporadic tree line.

“Hey! Recruit, didn’t I say you would have to run to and from Haven?! Pick up those feet!”

“Ugh! Maker!” He could hear faintly from an airy, but exasperated woman. It made him chuckle a bit, but somehow he didn’t worry about whether or not she was staying true to the command.

\--

Returning to the Apothecary cottage after dropping supplies off at the Smith’s shop, Olivia found herself all by herself by the small table in the corner she had claimed for her own projects. She took a deep breath, feeling her muscles and joints reeling from her vigorous morning of training. It was day one, always the hardest, but soon she would be stronger. She would have to be, or else there was no hope for her to rise to the occasion.

Her solitude gave her an opportunity to ease her pain. First she unhooked and released herself from her armor breastplate and shoulders, letting them clank as they got tossed onto the table. She went to work unbuckling her vest and rolling her shoulders out of it, and then unbuttoning the underlayer. Once that was done she was able to strip down to her smallclothes top, revealing out in the open.

Once it was all tossed to the table she got a look over what had already begun to appear on her body: the bruising, scrapes, and callous skin forming on various edges and curves on her arms, shoulders, chest, and torso. Her paleness providing a stark canvas for the discoloration of blues, purples, and reds. This wasn’t an uncommon sight, to see her body so damaged. At least this time it was for something she elected to undergo.

Taking a breath, she refocused and started searching for the bottle on the shelf she had in mind. They were labeled with paper and ink, though sometimes the writing faded. At last, she found it with its slightly gelatinous contents -- a balm of sorts. Grabbing it and uncorking the glass, she began tapping the opening rigorously onto the palm of her hand. The balm was cold to the touch, but it felt tingly as well, which was what she truly sought. Setting down the bottle so as to free up her hands, she began rubbing the dollop between her palms to warm it up some. Lastly, she began to rub it on the large areas of bruising and soreness on her upper body, gently massaging with her application. As she did so, she could feel the warmth and the tingling sensation spread. It would help ease the tension in her body and keep tired muscles warm and supple even in the cold weather, especially underneath layers of thick clothes where it could last longer.

She let out a soft moan as she began to feel its effects on her neck and ribs. Those tumbling and falling exercises had done a number on her, mainly because she hadn’t known that such maneuvers were able to be implemented. To her, a fall was a fall, and a tumble a tumble. Now everything seemed to have choreographic potential.

Her hands slowed but kept at their task, indulging her muscles with pressured touch. She became relaxed enough to lean her head back gently, her eyes closing as she swayed towards the pointed pressure of her fingers on the back of her neck. Her lips parted, then, and she found herself rocking in and out of the motions. With each round of back and forth she felt her neck and shoulders release more tension, and settle into their shape. A slight arch in her back enhanced the experience, her other free hand anchoring fingertips on the table surface in front of her. No one had ever touched her this way, not the way that prioritized her euphoria first and foremost. Of course she had people touch her in most every cavernous inch of her body, but to her contact was defined by its purpose. Young love, yes. Desirous objectification, yes. Accident, yes. But never purposeful, never amorous.

For the most part, she liked to keep it that way. People would always exalt themselves by saying their bodies were to be Temples. What they neglected to address was the fact that Temples were open all day to an indiscriminate populous. Olivia had come to understand this duality rather early on in her life, though she had come to understand that some bodies would always be on a pedestal for their promiscuity, and others damned.

Her touch slowed as her arm grew tired of its backwards extension, and with that her eyes crept open. The euphoria that was initiated had begun to waiver. Perhaps she could recreate it the next day, and the day after that, after these cold and unforgiving morning trainings. Surely, the privacy of an alleged Herald of Andraste could be afforded that much.


	12. History Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Rebel Mages making their way to Haven, Olivia is shifting into her role now as an Agent of the Inquisition and fabled martyr. Her relationships have all been fine-tuned to be of advantage not only to herself but to her cohort of allies -- except for one stern Seeker, that is.

About a week had passed since Olivia’s inaugural training session, and the more time she spent with her daily schedule the more beneficial it felt. Progress would not happen overnight, but she could already feel herself getting stronger. Better yet, she was starting to have a more rounded connection and awareness of her body that she hadn’t known since her apprentice days. It benefited both her health and her magic, and Solas could see it, too. Her power was becoming more refined and controlled in its exertions, and exercises that had once intimidated her became routine. That didn’t mean that her schedule of responsibilities didn’t surprise her, or leave her a taken aback at certain times. What it did mean, though, was that she wasn’t going to await their occurrences in fear as much as she used to.

Haven had been welcoming Rebel Mages the entire week as well, and as they began to trickle into the stronghold tensions ebbed and flowed. People wanted answers to the Rebel Mages’ crimes without properly contextualizing the crimes done unto them, and vice versa. Olivia, alongside Fiona, had taken the helm of being liaison whenever she had to, though it was hard to claim full loyalty on either side. Complaints were filed daily, almost by the hour, about various slights: requests for cot changes, rude remarks, even threats of physical violence.

Above all, Olivia’s priorities were to protect the women and children that existed within the Rebel’s ranks from pernicious soldiers and would-be assailants. She knew what it was to be deemed unworthy of respect not only as a woman, but as a Mage. To her those two identities were forever entangled. People could debate about politics and blame day in and day out, but once she began to welcome the first Mothers with their children, some as young as one or two years of age and strapped to their chests with blankets and leather, it was as if Olivia’s radicalism had a new outlet. The Council began to notice it, too -- her growing dismissiveness of Cullen’s caveats, rather than direct antagonism. Her negotiations on behalf of her people were increasingly sympathetic rather than bitter.

Though, to be sure, there was still spirit to her that nothing could soften beyond acuity.

On this morning, she was walking back from the frozen lake with a basket of roots and herbs she had dug in the snow to find. Healers were getting low on resources, and with so many new faces and bodies that meant trouble. Any and all hands on deck were appreciated, especially if one new which plants to extract and how. For Olivia, that was an easy yield.

As she walked with her bounty between her hand and her hip in the roughly weaved basket she had borrowed, she noticed the Seeker -- standing tall by the sparring rounds, like she always seemed to be -- talking one on one with someone who looked like one of the ranking Mages. Furrowing her brow, she placed her hand over her eyes to get a look under the light of the sunny sky. Indeed, it was a Mage, and from the looks of it the conversation was not going well. Knowing that it would be brave in and of itself for a Mage to go to the Seeker of all people for direct confrontation, she let out a sigh and chose to approach. Perhaps she would even the playing field, or disrupt it irrevocably.

“You cannot expect us to--”

“Yes, I can. We are not here to coddle the Mages. You are our ally, act like one.”

“But what are we supposed to--”

“Deal with it.”

Olivia arrived just as the Mage waved his hands in the air in rebuffed angst. He glared at Cassandra, and then at Olivia, though not nearly as viciously. As he left them, Olivia watched him go with a pang of guilt in her chest.

“It never ends, evidently,” Cassandra called her attention back to what was in front of her nose, and suddenly Olivia felt caught up in another one-on-one rhetorical dance with her. She smirked and shook her head.

“You, being a bit of an ass? No, I am afraid not.”

Cassandra’s brow furrowed as she looked Olivia’s way. “Excuse me?”

A giggle now from the Herald as she switched her basket from left to right hip. “Seeker, I do not mince my words.”

“I am well aware by now of that fact. What I am unsure of, however, is why you think I am deserving and receptive to it every time we engage.”

“Because no one else has the courage, besides Sister Leliana, of course. But she has better things to do than remind you of your bite.”

“She understands that my personality comes with experience, unlike yours, which is derived from spite and stubbornness.”

Olivia choked back a laugh. “Humor, at this early hour?”

“What about my disposition in this moment tells of humor?”

Olivia looked away for a moment, scanning the scene in front of her as she raised a brow. She inhaled deep, and held her breath for a moment as she found herself once again tempted to discursively spar with her ally. Releasing with a breathy exhale, she recollected her vigor.

“Nevermind, Seeker. I have a favor to ask, one which I am not foolish enough to anger you before requesting. Will you come ride with me on the back trail of the woods? The Scouts have been meaning to check our posts there, but with all the newcomers they have been distracted in anticipating their arrival through the mountain pass.”

Cassandra’s eyes softened, but not beyond skepticism. Folding her arms as she evaluated the wisdom of this choice she thought it could only end one of two ways: one, with Olivia finally going for it and attempting to assassinate her, or two, her being tied to tree whilst she rode off with both of their horses never to return. Either way, she knew she was bound to have a most reckless and idyllic smile be the last sight she’d ever see.

“I can spare some time. Meet me at the pens in half an hour. I have some reports to finish for the Commander,” she finally responded, turning and walking away this time leaving Olivia without the last word. The Herald grinned, feeling triumphant but nervous at the same time. Inviting someone she halfway disliked to a trail ride seemed most counterproductive, but in this day and age she had little room for nit-picking her company.

Tightening her grip on her basket, she continued her way back to the Healer’s tents knowing that she would have to buck up in half an hour for whatever was to come of a one-on-one excursion.

\--

“The Mages need to learn that their self-reliance is possible, and vital. They cannot depend on us to service their needs as they have in the past.”

“Ah, yes, I loved having three square meals a day in between getting slapped in the mouth when telling a Templar to give me back my books.”

Cassandra sighed. “This is your doing after all, you created this alliance. You should have an understanding that things cannot be as they were.”

“Silly me, I thought I was simply playing a game of Chess.”  
This had been the general attitude between the two women as the rode side by side up the incline trail towards the Scout posts. Olivia in her cloak, head hooded against the iced winds, was doing her best not to maintain any eye contact whilst she spout off. Cassandra, wearing a heavy wool jacket with its own hood, did not bother covering her head or her face. She prioritized vigilance above all.

“You are mocking me. I do not feign ignorance towards the abuses Templars inflicted,” Cassandra at last admitted as their horses briskly trudged through the snow. “But hard lines of guilt and innocence with regards to misdeeds must not be declared as truth.”  
“What can be truth, then, Seeker? It is after all your job to find it.”

“The Seeker’s Order understands the responsibility to truth and at the same time the evasiveness of its existence in most every circumstance. It is our duty to adhere to faith and justice when such situations unfold.”

Olivia tilted her head back, rolling her stiff soldiers back as she gazed out at the unlevel tree line to her left. The pines of deep, dark green with patches of snow in their limbs. The stillness of the wilderness, so much so it looked as if no footprints had been tread anywhere. It was nowhere, no man’s land, to the eye.

“The truth of what I experienced is not elusive, yet I saw no Seeker come to my aid.”

“We do not simply climb through windows and up towers to save maidens. We have protocol and methods which ensure a thorough execution of fairness.”

“Pity, and it was my understanding you were a romantic,” she chuckled under her breath, seeing the steam of hot air escape her lips.

They came then to an overlook of the valley, where a Scout post lay beyond just another half mile. Olivia kicked her horse into an energetic canter up to it, arriving to a halt so as to peer out from the heights they had managed to climb to. She loosened her reins when her horse came to a standstill, patting it lightly on the side of its neck as it let out a sigh. Cassandra followed behind her until she stopped her own ride at her left side. She loosened her grip, but still looked ready to take off at a moment’s notice, ever-prepared.

“It was my understanding that you detested such things,” Cassandra replied at last, sitting tall and at attention as she gazed out at the vastness of the valley.

“Oh, damn it all. And here I was hoping I would remain an anomaly to you forever. Who gave you permission to take note of my unruly disposition?” Olivia smiled as she adjusted her riding gloves.

“You have made it most difficult, but no one is above disclosing their true selves once they are around people for a long-enough duration of time.”

“Perhaps, then, this shall be the last time I ever speak to you.”

“I would hardly think that wise.”

Olivia shook her head, stifling a laugh. That blessing of a laugh that everyone was engrossed by, somehow unfit for exposition in the Seeker’s presence. Cassandra eyed her from her periphery, noting her restraint.

“What is it you have invited me here for?” she asked finally, resting her hands on the pommel of her saddle. “You do not seem pleased to be in my presence to begin with.”

“For this,” Olivia replied bluntly, slouching a bit as she unhooded her head of blonde hair. Cassandra waited for something -- anything -- to join that response, but when Olivia simply looked on silently, she became confused.

“...and what, exactly, are you referring to?”

“This discussion. You see, I have been able to tailor my alliances with our people rather well, and I find I am learning new things with each passing day. I thought you would be a wonderful choice to learn some history and politics of the world which kept me locked away for a decade.”

Her nonchalant response was a bit unnerving. So, then, this was a manipulation all along, and not the extension of friendship or civility that had long been neglected between them. Cassandra didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed, and the fact that she felt compelled to be impressed made the “annoyed” option more appealing.

“I find it hard to believe you were unaware of the world whilst in the Circle, surely there were news and reports. Otherwise how would you have known the Circles had voted to disband?”

Olivia raised a brow and glanced her way, a stern frown on her lips as she stared. Her hazel irises were still and cold, a change of mood behind them. Cassandra felt the truth weigh itself in the air.

“...But, then, how was it that you--”

“The Circles’ vote to disband was unexpected, Seeker. Perhaps not by its leaders, but by us smaller people who lived day-by-day the best we could have. We heard rumors and whispers from the spying on office doors of our teachers. We were not told by formal announcement, we were told by the way Templars began to cut our own down for insubordination that became increasingly speculative. It was then that our superiors could no longer hide the reality of what had been done, or stave off the consequences. Ostwick’s neutrality was a farce for what became a murderous regime.”

Cassandra tilted her head, then, and closed her mouth. Alright, so that was particularly unfortunate to hear. But such realities were hardly shocking to her, the woman who had seen and heard most every kind of traumatic scene a human could imagine. The Circles had picked a fraught time to disband in the first place.

“I...I did not know,” she managed to concede.  
“Of course you didn’t. But you know to tell a Mage to fend for themselves as if that is news to them.”

“Herald, I--”

“No, Seeker. You wonder why I have neglected to open up to you, but you conduct yourself like you have since the day you burst into my prison cell to interrogate me on charges of mass murder. I deny you access because there is nothing awaiting me in a friendship with you but compromising the tragedy of my lived experience. You complain more of Mages’ complaints than they do in the first place, as the Commander and several of the allies do as well. But in my eyes, your complaint is not vested in true inconvenience, but the insult you feel at having been asked to care for those whom you have become indifferent to.”

Cassandra fought the urge to become furious with every bone in her body, but this was an inner battle she was never quite as good at. Twenty years of service to the Chantry and the Seekers and this Mage had the audacity to talk as if she was the ultimate thorn in the side of her life’s work. But discipline, measured reaction, that was the Seeker’s way -- not exploding or arguing bitterly on a mountain trail. As she turned her head to look at her only to see Olivia staring at her right back, undaunted, it was a most hairy struggle to remain collected. She clenched her jaw a moment before finding the words to respond.

“I have never required you to divulge anything of your past or your identity, and I reject your assumptions of my character. You are speaking out of turn.”

“I do not need you to agree. That is not why I invited you up here. I did because I know you disagree with me, much to your amiable willingness to help me in my ventures. You need me to remain installed in the ranks by virtue of my stature and the anchor in my hand, and I need you to help me.”  
“And help with what? You seem quite capable of discernment and judgment on your own merits!” Cassandra sneered, arching her back a bit in defiance.

Olivia took a breath and calmed the fury brewing in her mind and heart. She reached and pushed stray hairs behind her ear and looked down at her saddle’s pommel, noting the intricate and rustic design carved into the leather. She was poison-tongued, but it couldn’t be the primary tool for her to gain cooperation and she knew it.

“You may not know much of my past, but I know enough of yours to understand that you have considerable experience leading forces as well as managing a position of clout. Ostwick was many things, as you have so cleverly pointed out. But we were educated ornaments. We were not taught how to lead, how to be tacticians, how to manage political power in the realms of Empires. We were taught to be intelligent so as to teach the next generation to be intelligent. I am a scholar, not a war heroine. Even though I am most misfit for this role, I learn quick and I learn well. I can learn to do this but I need collaborators. I can think of no one more qualified to teach me how to navigate the perils of war, the Orders, and history like you.”

As they stared at each other, silently doing as they frequently did and evaluating the other’s sincerity, Cassandra found herself once again unsure of what to do with her. To go from slicing through her character like a dagger to esteeming her for her experience? There was never a rhyme or reason to Olivia’s personality except that she didn’t have one. Or maybe that was the Seeker’s preclusion that Mages were one-track-minds. Underneath it all, though, Cassandra found herself feeling more respect for Olivia’s point of view than she yet had up until this point. The facade of a jubilant, rebellious siren was eroding before her eyes.

The Seeker inhaled deep and turned her attention to the landscape in front of them. This was a double-edged sword: knowing Olivia had no intention of opening up, but at the same time was vulnerable with her inadequacy and need for understanding. Indeed, it was farther than Cassandra thought they would get given the distance.

“I suppose…” she hesitated a bit, “that your education benefits us all, and thus is a priority.”

“I am only one person, but it seems that I cannot avoid expectations any longer.”

“On the contrary, you have not only faced them squarely, but defied them at every opportunity. You have also seemed to gain the friendship of most every ally we have enlisted. I cannot say I understand how, given your apparent harshness for my individual position.”

Olivia sighed, a fleeting grin arising on her lips as she surveyed the forest with distracted eyes. Her reputation as Miss Congeniality was fast becoming part of her lore, whether she was aware of it or not. It was a most different sensation to being the envy-inciting priss in the Circle outsmarting everyone she could. But this Olivia, the one everyone was seeing more as time went on, she was the Olivia her friends had molded from the clay; they turned someone full of malice and resentment into someone who cared. She owed who she was to them, so much so she could almost see their faces as she thought of the debt she owed. And now they may be lost to her forever.

Blinking to suppress any visceral tears this could have inspired, she cleared her throat. She could feel Cassandra’s eyes on her, and she didn’t like it now. She promptly gathered her reins and adjusted her seat.

“I have known friendship. What I need now is alliance, and that does not require you to like me or me to like you. A goal at hand is what we strive for.”

“If that is what you wish, Herald, it is hardly my place to interfere or question.”

Olivia then looked her way again, blinking with a shade of new melancholy in her eyes. Cassandra had never seen her so candid before, and so up close. Perhaps she was finally seeing the person she was, even if she wasn’t speaking it. She was showing something real. Admittedly, she could also understand not wanting to blur lines between obligation and personal affect. She could never hope to criticize such a choice without claiming blatant hypocrisy. Though, such things existed, and she believed in them deep down: friendship, love, commitment, trust, faith. War was not the death of all.

“It is my wish, Seeker. Thank you for understanding. I think it best now if we do not linger here much longer. Surely both of us are needed down there.” Olivia then offered a soft smile to cap off her assertiveness, taking the sting out of it. Tightening the slack in her reins, she egged her horse into a walk, circling around the front half of Cassandra and her horse before further asking for a canter. At once her horse broke into the gait and she was off, cap billowing behind her. Cassandra prepared for departure, but waited a moment to watch her take off with snow flying in her wake. For someone so affronted by intimacy, she beckoned closer with every idiosyncrasy.

However, Cassandra trusted herself to know the difference well enough, now that she had seen it up close. The world was fast crumbling to its foundations around them, and needed decisiveness now more than ever. If Olivia could commit to such a task, friendship may very well prove irrelevant.


	13. Sealed Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Mages fully absorbed into Inquisition ranks the ritual to seal the breach is now upon the allies and the Herald herself. Traveling to the ruins of the Conclave, Olivia must deal with what the Temple meant to everyone else, and what it meant to her to have possible lost her friends forever. The ritual brings forth stifled emotions for her on just how much the disaster changed her life forever.

By the end of the second week, the last groupings of Rebel Mages had made their pilgrimage to Haven. The Fereldan guard that had been dispatched personally by the King ensured quick and uninterrupted travel. His temper matched his actions, and that was something that could be admired when it came to judging whether a man was of his word.

That meant that the final sealing of the breach -- or at least the attempt of it -- would finally come to pass, and Olivia could feel the growing angst in her stomach almost by the hour. There was no promise that this would work, nor that it would bring peace in the aftermath. Assembling the Mages with the troop recruits, many former or dissident Templars, was no small feat. It was also a calculated and fragile risk. Throughout it all Olivia did her best to appear resolute and strong even if it meant shutting herself away in a backroom and crying from the stress for ten minutes before Council meetings, or biting down on a bitter root herb whilst she read report after report that indicted her person. For all the suspense, it seemed as though the sooner the breach could be sealed, the better for morale.

As she stood beside her cot in the cottage she had been appropriated since the morning after the explosion, she was busy readying herself for the mission in front of her. She along with Solas, Vivienne, and Cassandra would make the venture to what remained of the Temple, along with a contingent of Mages to further empower the attempt at closing it once and for all. She had been unsure of how to dress for such an occasion; heavy armor for an apocalyptic boon that could make short work of her if her procedure backfired? Not as hopeful as it would otherwise be. But she armored herself out of principle. If she was to face the unknown perhaps it was best to have layers of metal and leather between her and her doom than anything else.

As she messed with the fit of her shoulder guards she heard a knock on the door. Not paying too much attention she called out saying to come in. To her surprise, it was Solas who entered, looking ready as ever to depart but not needing much to be in the first place.

“Your Worship, the group is ready and assembled in front of the Chantry to depart for the Temple,” he said, shutting the door behind him. Once that was done he stood tall but humbly, hands at his sides.

“Wonderful, I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes,” she replied with a soft grin, yanking at one buckle and finding the right notch at long last.

Solas nodded, but did not leave. “If I may be candid with you, how are you feeling?”

“I am not sure. Perhaps it is best for these situations if I don’t lead with feelings, for once,” she replied, smirking. This was an intriguing scene to witness: Solas had been a thorough and attentive tutor for magic, but never in a personally relative way. Greetings, politeness, these were all formulaic to him. She couldn’t remember if he had ever taken to asking how she was, or if something was upsetting her. Perhaps this was a monumental day for more than just herself.

“I see. Well, if it is any consolation, we are as prepared as possible for the task at hand given the circumstances.”

“I am glad you think so. How have you found it, having more Mages surrounding you in the given day?”

“Surely not that different from before. I find myself to be at an ideological and experiential distance from most Mages, particularly those who have known the Circle’s organization.”

Olivia made final adjustments on her sleeves as she turned to face him head on, a sweet face to greet his clever one. “You seem to have little trouble with me, Solas, and I am but a Circle Mage gone awry.”

“Perhaps it is in that awry nature that you have found a means to transcend.”

“I hardly think so. At least, it does not feel like it.”

Feeling ready in her ensemble, she patted the sides of her thighs and exhaled. That left the matter of her weaponry. She turned promptly to the spread across her cot: not only a staff with a refined and sharply cleaned blade, but two daggers sheathed and attached to a thick belt. Olivia had followed Blackwall’s advice and demanded weapons she would not just know how to use, but ones she’d want to use in case things got complicated.

Solas noticed the peculiar addition as she grabbed either end of the belt strap and brought it around her waist.

“What use for daggers when you have your abilities and your staff?” he asked, intrigued.

“The question should be what use wouldn’t I have for knives like these,” she smiled, buckling it tightly around her hips. “They are a comfort from my past life dealings, I suppose. Not much more.”

Solas smirked silently. “Perhaps my tutelage has left much to desire for you?”

“No! Certainly not, Solas,” she said at once, shaking her head. “I am simply used to them, and they are good to have in a pinch. I have gotten used to the staff and my powers so much more than I thought possible, and to your credit!”

He couldn’t help it. At her alarmed sincerity, he chuckled a bit. “Rest assured, Herald, I am not slighted. I am confident in my ability to teach, as I am in your ability to advance.”

Olivia’s face softened once she realized that there was a bit of a game afoot. She was gullible, still, after all these months of incredible trials on her patience. But she also underestimated Solas’s abilities to tease. She should know better at this point, what with almost every day expending at least an hour together in her practices. It must have been the nerves that came with the day.

“Clever, Solas.”

“I am aware, Your Worship. Now, are you ready to embark?”

Standing still now with nothing left to add onto her body, no weapon, no armor left unpacked. She took a deep breath and allowed herself one fleeting moment of wait before opening her eyes and nodding.

“I am. Let us get this over with.”

\--

The trek through the mountains took hours before they could even see the break in the peaks where the Temple once stood tall and domineering over the landscape. The ash had long mixed with snow and dusted away in the winds, but the smell lingered to the sensitive nose. Olivia could see uneven curvatures in the snow drifts from what she could only guess were remains, or perhaps old wood and stone tossed across the valley. Once they got close enough the looming green static energy exposed its epicenter.

Olivia could feel the anchor stir as they drew nearer, riding on her favorite horse with her vest hood tightly fitted around her head, a scarf tucked around her nose and mouth leaving her golden glowing irises the only attribute identifying her amongst the group. She road alongside Cassandra at the front, traversing what remained of the desolate mountain paths. No words were exchanged since departing Haven; everyone was on edge about what was to come.

Eventually they made their way around and into the valley’s heart, where she had once seen numerous burning skeletal remains across a scorched Earth. She remembered how it took her breath away, and how it mortified her that perhaps her friends were one or more of those indistinguishable bodies. If death had come for them she hoped it quick and painless. If it didn’t, she hoped they were somewhere happy and safe, far away from any portent of destruction. Even if it meant being far away from her.

Once arrived at the still standing archway of stone she dismounted and unloaded along with her allies. Finding their way down the uneven and broken stairways, she ungloved her left hand as it began to burst and crackle against her skin. Clamoring for its source of like-minded power. They stood on the overlook where they had done so many months before, getting a look at the monstrous rift for the first time. Now it had become the sight that haunted everyone’s dreams, including her own, should she sleep.

“Are you ready?” Cassandra’s voice echoed slightly as she stood at her side.

Olivia held out her anchored hand in front of her waist as she pulled her scarf from her head. Her hood fell with it down to her shoulders. Her eyes were locked on the rift like a target.

“As I will ever be.” Then she walked down the jagged steps and slope. Cassandra followed, as did Solas and the Mages. Vivienne elected to remain on the first overlook. Perhaps she wanted to be able to escape this tumultuous situation should something go wrong; or, maybe one survivor needed to be able to travel to Haven and warn the others. Either way, nothing was going to convince her to be on the ground for this, as much as she had become secretly invested in Olivia’s fortitude.

Once there were no more steps or paths to overcome and the rift loomed over them like a seething monster, Olivia placed her hand on the bend of her left arm. The nerves in her left side were dancing and humming unlike anything she had known, not in her magic or even in sealing rifts across the countryside. This was the epicenter, the wound from which her anchor was derived and unhealed.

She stood farther out from the rest, all by herself. This phenomena was the cause of all this -- the cataclysm that took everything from her that she had grown to value, that had grounded her identity in something real. Now, she was going to do away with it like it had done away with her future, whatever it was intended to be.

She could feel Solas and Cassandra approach her, flanking her on either side. She lowered her chin as they halted their advance. She didn’t think this would be an emotional process or that she would find herself choking back tears. Who could blame her, though? So much life was lost and not just those she valued. This ground was hallow now for more reasons than the Temple. Solas and Cassandra glanced each other’s way as she herself remained quiet. Solas could feel the sorrow in her mana reflecting outward, meanwhile Cassandra understood by virtue of her own stifled grief. Both methods of compassion were valid, and both had the same conclusion: Olivia was hurting, and this was retribution.

“Herald,” Solas said solemnly at last, “we must not delay much longer.”

A moment, where Olivia lifted her chin. “Let us end it now,” she muttered. Cassandra stared at the back of her head, sensing anger in her voice. It was too late to question or criticize her now, as Solas turned and went back to lead the Mages in concerted effort for the ritual.

Feeling the assembled power of the Mages behind her in her bones, she knew the time had come.

__

_Gem, you’re not supposed to be here! How did you track me?_

__

__

_We stalked you from the port onward. Tell me where she is? Have you found her!?_

These voices faded in and out of existence, lucid and disembodied. For it being her words they felt alien to her, as if her mind had lapsed into the existence of another person a world away. But just as quick as they dropped into her mind, they faded, echoed and leaving her desolate again. Gone, and perhaps never to return. That was it; with nothing left now, she reached her hand up above her head and let the anchor connect with the rift at last. Grabbing hold and shaking her a bit as the synapse of power collided, the Mages struck the ground with their staffs in a singular beat.

The path of power streamed to her feet, and up into her body. She then became more vessel than independent body and mind. Her eyes became overwhelmed with light, and she closed them whilst she narrowed in with focus. It felt resistant, but with the additional power, the struggle was more decisive. All the while her body felt as if it were to stretch and contort from the inside out, or else shatter like a piece of pottery.

Watching her do this, it was hard for Cassandra not to feel responsible and protective. It was her that dragged her up this mountain in the wake of the calamity, and it was her that asked her to stay. Now, for all she knew, she was about to watch her be destroyed for the sake of this cause. She stood tall and frozen, holding her breath without thinking. For all their differences, she found herself praying Olivia would survive this.

Solas looked on, stoic as ever, though his furrowed brow alluded to a hopefulness. The connection had gone on for almost half a minute seeming to argue with the presence of the anchor. But then: a collapse.

The light lurched up, breaking its limb between it and Olivia’s hand as it was sent hurling up towards the rift itself. Olivia fell to her knees at the rapid momentum, letting out a soft groan as she landed. The sky began to ache and moan above her her head but she did not look up. Perhaps she wondered if this was death realized. Feeling steps encroach, and then a hand on her shoulder, life reminded her that it yet continued.

She peered up over her shoulder and saw the Seeker, stoic but diligent as she offered her a hand. Her eyes were red but not from the rift or the ritual. As Cassandra witnessed the first tears she ever saw come from Olivia’s eyes, the origin of their hue was unquestionable.

The Seeker hesitated to speak as she gripped Olivia’s shoulder, but once she did, she committed. “Are you alright?”

Olivia rose to her feet and utilized the strength of her ally in the process. The ground and air around them had gone quiet in the absence of the rift’s outstretched influence. Now it was truly as silent as the grave, and with enough ghosts to haunt it across the ages. Gazing back at the group of Mages, all looking on with hope and timidity in their eyes from what she could see, Olivia could feel the pressure to claim triumph. Her lips parted, and she let her left hand fall to her side, dormant now. She inhaled sharply and stifled the urge to break down, covering the sadness with a tearful smile.

“Do not be scared, everyone, I am well!” she called back to them, offering a chuckle to her words. At her announcement, they smiled and even clapped. As they were uncertain whether the ritual had truly worked they would take every piece meal happiness they could. Solas remained staring up at the sky, vigilant for the bigger picture.

Olivia turned and made eye contact with Cassandra, then, and wiped her eyes. The two women stayed locked on each other’s hazel eyes, reckoning with the moment. Cassandra couldn’t help but feel as though she had trespassed into Olivia’s innermost suffering if but for a moment. But the weight of the responsibility they had to sealing the breach was the ultimate concern.

“We should return to Haven, and evaluate,” she said with her hands behind her back. “Well done.”

Olivia nodded to her before looking down at her feet. So it was over, then, perhaps. Now it was onto the challenge of the world gone mad and reckless with discord. Simple, of course.

As they hiked back up to the overlook, they were greeted by Madame Vivienne.

“Time will tell whether this experiment proved sufficient,” Vivienne remarked as Olivia approached her. “In the meantime, there will undoubtedly be drunken celebrations toasting to a swift victory.”

Olivia scoffed. “There are worse things, I suppose.”

“Mm, yes, that is true.”

The Herald then turned to the tall, still-standing stone pillar by the stairwell she had just climbed. As people gathered around she bit her lip and walked toward it out of the blue, confusing everyone as she seemed to have unfinished business with this particular column of broken rock. Pulling her scarf from her belt where she had attached it, she pressed her nose and mouth in it and closed her eyes. She took one deep inhale -- the smells were faded, but if she focused enough there were still traces. The scarf was around her neck the day the Conclave was destroyed, as it had been for months. Its heather grey color was modest but hid dirty stains well. It was loyal and steadfast throughout this whole blasted saga while the people she believed would never leave her were taken.

If the girls were gone, if they were permanently lost to her, then this scarf remained the last connection she truly had to who she was when she belonged to them heart and soul. Opening her eyes again, she gripped onto its weathered fabric for one last time. Then she reached around the column with it, finding a narrowed point just enough for it to fit the circumference. Tying it in a knot snuggly fit around the stone, she let her hands rest on it for a moment longer.

All the while, her allies looked on in wonderment. Had she been this affected by the mass loss of life? Perhaps so. Vivienne was the only person to know what she may well have been taking time to mourn, and it intrigued her that she would display it so openly. The charade was weakening in resolve, and it would prove most interesting to see what would happen when it all finally came crashing down. And it would come crashing down. Solas was intrigued but not to the point of wishing to know what kept her. For him the true issue was the rift and what had become of it.

Cassandra once again found herself more confused as to the erratic behavior Olivia showed. Was she heartfelt or heartless, then? The woman who told her she didn’t have a need for friendships, but seemed so lonely for one reason or another. Grieving and resolute simultaneously. What had the Conclave meant to her this whole time, if not simply the disaster that took the lives of strangers?

It was then that Olivia released her hold on the scarf and took a step back. A deep breath, one for the road ahead. _If you can only be with me from the other side, my darlings, then do so. I need you now, and I am so sorry I failed you._

The air hummed low as she turned away from her makeshift monument. If she didn’t pay close attention, she could almost hear the rhythm of an Orlesian pyre hymn, like the ones sang for her father’s funeral.

_… The bird sings a sweet winged prayer_

_For the love I lost, these days are greyer;_

_But I will take his sword in my hands_

_Against all evils, and time’s salted sands_

_For the land of my people, I will endure ..._


	14. A Phoenix's Pyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day has unfolded into celebration as the breach has finally been sealed by the Herald of Andraste and her assemblage of Mage allies. The victory does not last long, however, as a siege on Haven unfolds in the dark cold of night. Olivia's training and education are tested as she fulfills the role of both literal and symbolic heroine.

Vivienne’s prediction proved most exact. Once Solas returned from his individual investigations confirming that the Breach had been closed once and for all, Haven erupted into jubilant celebration. Wine, bread, meat, and laughter spread like wildfire across the camp. For once, differences and prejudices seemed to take a back seat. Seeing Mages dance with former Templars, workers converse with high-ranking officials with laughter and smiles across all their faces, Olivia felt as though a weight had been removed from her chest and replaced with another she could not yet name.

Sitting on a waist-high stone wall and hugging her knees to her chest she seemed hardly the one for notoriety on this night despite her heroism. Her hand, the savior’s weapon, gloved and tucked under her thighs for no one to see. There was so much unknown and so much awaiting her. What was she to do now? Live her life with this anchor in her skin as if it were another limb or organ? Was she to rise further into leadership and fame which would further alienate her from her past crimes? No one wanted to answer, and she did not want to ask. People were happy and that was all that mattered.

She tucked her chin and mouth against her upper arm and looked on as she had been for the majority of the evening’s events. A quiet, shallow grin on her lips.

“I trust you have heard from Solas that the breach is sealed?” a stark Nevarran accent approached her from behind, evoking an unnoticeable smirk from the Herald. She did not bother to turn and face her -- hearing her boots come to a sturdy halt several feet from her in the snow was enough.

“Yes, I have.”

Cassandra watched her for any more expressive mannerisms, but was only met with stillness. She put her hands behind her back and rolled her shoulders a bit. “There are reports of rifts that yet exist, and there are many questions still left unanswered. But this was a victory. Word of your heroism has spread, even with so little time.”

Even with a kind concession from the Seeker -- for her standards at least -- Olivia could only think about what haunted her. Saying goodbye against her will to the people her world revolved around, and now left at the mercy of the responsibilities she had accrued in her time in Haven. Even with all the progress she had made both in training and mentorship it loomed upon her head and shoulders like a phantom damnation.

“Is something the matter, Your Worship?” Cassandra’s voice reminded her that it was her turn to say something in the conversation.

Olivia lifted her chin and looked up at the sky where the lights flickered like ribbons of satin across its complexion. “I am simply contemplative over what is to come, is all.”

Cassandra inched closer as she tightened her grip on her own wrist. “That is a matter of concern, I will admit. This was the work of alliance, one of the few in recent memory. But that also means that alliance will need new focus.”

“And I suppose that means I must take care with my part in it,” Olivia sighed and rose to her feet then, dusting off the powdery snow from the sides of her breeches. She then turned and gazed back at the Seeker, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her as they oversaw the joyous goings-on of a hardworking encampment.

“While I cannot say what may yet be asked of you, what I can offer is observation: you have worked diligently and actively to forge the alliance that made this possible. For that I must infer you will be further needed in order to preserve its potential for good.”

Olivia chuckled softly, looking out at the scene. “You trust me with that?”

“I have had to trust you with a great many things thus far with little evidence to support it. Yet, here you stand, as you have done since I asked you to scale the mountain with me to the Temple. Is that not worth recognition?”

“You are overwhelming me with your flattery, Seeker, I think I may yet prove besotted.”

“Do not count on it. It is hardly my particular style.”

Olivia raised a brow and glanced her way, a slight grin on her lips. The sight made Cassandra feel torn and unreasonably allured. She wanted to ask why she found Olivia in tears after sealing the breach, why she lingered on the ruins and left her scarf as if she was saying goodbye to someone, something of personal value. But then she remembered her stern warning up on the trail. Friendship was unnecessary, and alliance was vital. Yet there they were staring at one another, and she could not shake the urge to understand her as a friend and confidant would strive to.

As she opened her mouth to dare such a thing, the bells rang out at the gates, and both women turned their heads to the direction in which they sounded off. Olivia’s heart stopped, and her smile vanished.

Cassandra brushed past her, drawing her sword as she looked back at her. “We must get to the gates!”

Olivia nodded and went with her. As she ran she could see the Commander standing directly behind the doors shouting orders and words she could not yet understand. Instinctively she reached back onto her belt and unsheathed both daggers to match the Seeker’s preparedness for what they were to find out. As they ran, she saw Dorian and Iron Bull flank them, weapons in hand as well.

“It’s always something!” Bull growled as they came together. Olivia looked out at the mountain slope where dots of firelight began to cascade over them. She followed Cassandra over to where Cullen stood, eager to understand just how deep of trouble they were in.

“Cullen?!” the Seeker exclaimed.

“There’s one lone watchman reporting a massive force, the bulk over the mountain,” he replied, glancing in both their directions.

Ambassador Montilyet who had also rushed to the gates approached him from his side. “Under what banner?”

“None.”

“None?!”

Olivia took a dreaded breath and glanced Cassandra’s way. This was hardly a victory celebration conclusion. Her attention was then grabbed by sharp, sudden banging on the doors. Had they already come so far as to be bearing down on their walls?

I can’t come in unless you open!

A strange voice, but one that sincerely harmless. What a betrayal the sight on the other side of the door would be to that first impression. At once she and the Commander went for the doors, hands on the bar as they lifted it together. It was the first time they seemed to do anything cooperative since the Inquisition began, but priorities changed.

Behind the door was a most bizarre looking young man, bloodied blades in his hand and a trail of bodies behind him. What an entrance, Olivia thought, and she had become legend for her own. The boy was dressed in ragged linens with a large hat, fair hair over his eyes that distorted his identity. It didn’t matter much, because she was sure she would remember seeing such a person before.

She jogged to him, Cullen trailing her.

“I’m Cole,” he greeted in a rush, “I’ve come to warn you. People are coming to hurt you! You probably already know…”

“Cole, I need to know what is happening!” she replied, holding her hands out.

He answered in a low voice. “The Templars have come to kill you.”

Olivia’s breath halted and she took a step back to gaze back at the mountain of torch lights scattered, darker figures of people armed and oncoming. This made being tracked like dogs in the wilderness seem like a picnic walk. She was immediately filled with fear, sobering in its domination over her.

She turned back to Cullen, who in turn gave her perhaps the most candidly well-meaning face in return that she had seen from him since they were introduced.

“Cullen--”

“Templars?! Is this their response to us siding with the Mages, attacking blindly?”

Cole looked back at him, still eerily calm in response to the uproar. “The Red Templars went to the Elder One,” he then glanced to Olivia, “You know him. He knows you. You took his Mages. There!” at last, he pointed off into the distance to an embankment set high on the mountainside. Olivia followed his direction and saw, finally, the adversary known as the Elder One: a monstrously tall, disfigured demon wearing black robes. Beside him, a stouter man in Templar armor with a sword that looked as if it would stand upright as tall as she was. They glared down from their overbearing position onto the valley, the humble infrastructure of Haven quaking in their wake.

“He’s very angry that you took his Mages,” Cole muttered.

At that rhetoric, Olivia’s fear turned to anger, and she could feel her eyes and mind surge with mana. Nothing got her to bear her teeth like her people that she had given almost everything to save and restore to some security. It was the perfect kindling for the righteousness in her spirit to take hold over her terror.

“Over my dead body they are his Mages!” she growled, turning to the Commander. “Cullen, what are we to do?”

He glanced her way with a look of hesitancy. “Haven is no fortress. To survive this we must control the battle. Get out there and hit that force with everything you can.” With that, he unsheathed his sword, and yelled back towards the assemblage of rank-and-file troops.

“You have sanction to attack! That is Samson, he will not make this easy! Inquisition, with the Herald! For your lives, for all of us!”

\--

“Who put the tiny blonde on cranking duty?!” the Bull yelled through the fray as they battled off Templars left and right. Olivia meanwhile was pulling and pushing with all of her weight and feeling a bit self-conscious, as if there was room in such a moment. She tried her best to stay focused on the task at hand whilst fighting the urge to look back and see if her allies yet lived. By the sounds of it, though, they seemed to be doing well enough.

“Agh!” She cried at last pulling the lever and fully setting the last trebuchet for release. “I’ve got it!” Olivia than ran for the switch, pushing on it with both hands. And just like that, the ammo went flying towards the mountain.

Having cut down their enemies for now the allies assembled around her, looking on as the boulder hit and catalyzed a massive avalanche.

“And you lowlanders say this winter scape is relaxing,” Dorian gruffed as he stood by Olivia’s right side. “Nothing says relaxing like being consumed to death by a snowy embrace.”

Olivia breathed heavily from her rapid exertion. She was stronger, but only one woman. “Dorian, if I could--”

Once again she found herself cut off by a vastly more important issue at hand: a dragon flying across the sky and hurling toward them, blacker than the night and seething with red, crackling fire between its jaws.

“Get down!” the Seeker yelled as they jumped from the Trebuchet platform, tumbling to the cold and unforgiving ground. Not a second was wasted between their dive and the trebuchet being destroyed by a blast of fire.

“Are you kidding me!?” Olivia said with her hands covering her head.

“I would think a dragon knows less about humor than you know about your left hand’s talents, but who am I to judge!?” Dorian called out from wherever he was hiding.

A few feet across from her Bull crouched onto his knees. “Well, that makes things more interesting,” he remarked in return.

She growled and looked up now, seeing that the coast for clear for the time being she pulled up to her feet. “Everyone get to the gates now!”

Helping everyone back up that she could, Olivia booked it alongside her compatriots down the dirt path to the gates where the Commander was flagging down people. Making it just in time, the wood doors slammed shut behind them and became a shield for more dragon fire. Nearly tripping to the ground she turned to face Cullen having returned from what ended up being a futile attempt to take back the upper hand.

“So, is a back-up plan on the wings, or are we damned?!” she huffed at him.

He glanced her way with iron-like eyes, angry and strung out from being on the brink of disaster. “Everyone back to the Chantry!” he roared as he turned and headed up the steps. “Whatever chance we had has been destroyed by that--that beast!” he then glanced back at her. “At this point, make them work for it.”

Olivia inhaled deep, her staff in one hand as she sheathed one of her daggers back onto her hip.

“Damned it is, then,” she sighed and turned to her allies. “We must ensure everyone who has survived can come with us. I will not leave a single person behind as long as I breathe. If you aren’t willing to do the same, then make for the Chantry!”

Cassandra locked eyes with her and took a step forward -- she was no runner. Neither was the Iron Bull, who lowered his axe in a readied position. That left Dorian, staff in hand at his side.

“It is always the petite ones,” he sighed, before nodding her way. “Let us be at it, then. The villagers need us.”

Olivia’s stoic face didn’t yield. Diagonally across her face a trail of ash had smeared on her skin almost like warpaint. She had hardly noticed it, and now wasn’t the time for checking mirrors. Though the dark hue made her stare look like the indictment of a fire. The flames surrounding them danced in her bronze-hued irises as if they had found communion within their pools of energy. Taking one last scanning look at them all, a mixture of dirty sweat and blood making trails down her temples, she took off in the direction of the tavern and the apothecary shop she had come to know as the closest thing to sanctuary. Coming upon it burning like a pyre, she readied herself to salvage what she could.

Even though this was not the first time she had taken up arms amidst her allies, this was the first she had done so with the stature of a warrior.


	15. Healing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surviving against all odds, Olivia struggles to find the means for survival after singlehandedly destroying Haven. Her grip on life and determination wane as she searches, though in the end she realizes that perhaps it is living that is the harder fate to contend with than death.

For Olivia, her first time with a woman was much slower and indulgent in process than her first man had been by miles.

She was known as Odessa, and like Theia a Free Marcher. Sent to the Circle when she was around seven years of age like most others. And she was bold, so bold. Olivia remembered the day she turned around in her seat to see her cutting open a pear with a knife and slipping slices in between her teeth. The teacher had gotten Odessa’s attention, and she froze with the blade between her teeth, the broad side of it pressing into her lower lip. Olivia felt her focus blur and her nerves surge. Who would have thought one could envy a knife.

It wasn’t long before Odessa noticed that she had a demure admirer in Apprentice Sinclair, though she was much less assertive than she otherwise would be if any other girl had piqued her curiosity. While Olivia seemed innocent and harmless, her best friends were some of the most intimidating apprentices in the entire Circle. Not only that but within the hierarchy of women who preferred the company of other women -- and there was a hierarchy -- Theia almost always reigned supreme. To mess with her sweetest friend would be unwise. Of course, that is what made it all the more tempting.

Olivia never forgot the first time she spoke to her in the hall outside of one of the potion inventory rooms she had been sent to to gather supplies. Cradling a wooden box of filled bottles she almost ran into her waiting, leaning on the wall adjacent to the doorway. When she stepped back and focused her vision, there she was: her raven black hair, short and closer to the skin on the sides, coarse as if cut by a dull knife. Her eyes matched their darkness, but light refracted off of them in a most surreal way.

“Apprentice Sinclair,” Odessa said in her savvy tone, “I thought you could use some company.”

_Me? How did you know I’d be here, and why all of a sudden so attentive?_

“Company for an restocking chore is hardly vital, though I appreciate the thought,” Olivia shrugged sweetly. She looked over her shoulder, checking to see if any of her friends were lurking ready to defend her honor. They could be most embarrassing in that way. Seeing no one she turned and refocused on her visitor.

“Ah, a refusal. I may yet never hear my heart beat again,” Odessa grinned crookedly. She leaned away from the wall and folded her arms, her broad shoulders lined with the fur trim of her apprentice gown uniform.

“Regardless of whether your heart yet beats, Apprentice Cortiard, I am to report back to the east wing at once. I am in no need of company,” Olivia quipped as she adjusted her hold on the box in her arms.

Odessa smirked low, letting her arms fall as she walked closer. Olivia could feel her throat stifen as she tried her best to look undaunted. Odessa came around, her shoulder running into hers as she lingered. Her fingers traced across the bottle and jar lids, and then up to Olivia’s collar bone where it caught a flyaway strand of her dirty blonde hair. Effortlessly, she tucked it behind Olivia’s ear.

“We shall see if that changes, won’t we?” she whispered before departing down the hall. When she was gone Olivia allowed herself to bite her lip and tuck her chin closer to her chest. Butterflies ebbed in her stomach. This was the first -- well, the first she did not reject outright -- advance made by another woman for her attentions. For years she watched and entertained herself with Theia’s and Veronica’s escapades, happily contented to keep her hands clean. When her reputation for a scholarly snob took root she believed it impossible that any woman would come to pursue her.

 _Maker,_ she said to herself as she walked back to the wing from whence she came, Veronica is going to be tickled pink. And Theia will be livid.

\--

The ground did not welcome her in her fall -- indeed, it rarely did in the first place. But this time she was less comforted in knowing just what kind of ground, and where, she had tumbled this time. Her eyes opened one by one to blurry shades of blue, white, and grey. Her ears ringing as if she had stood in an explosion. She groaned mournfully until the sound of her voice hurt them more.

Over time she was able to decipher than she was laying on her back with her hips tilted to the right. Her hip bone was aching in pain; she must have landed on it and stuck herself in this position. It became her task to regain movement again, to somehow reanimate herself in case danger lurked for her still. First she worked on her hands and arms, but one was less obedient than the other. As she tried to roll her posture, a sharp pain shot through her left shoulder joint. She let out a whimpering cry, her voice hoarse and chilled.

 _Arrogance makes fools of us all; if I am to die, it will not be today!_ Her last words before she kicked the secure line to the trebuchet that would launch a boulder into the mountain above Haven. Her last sight was his face, inconvenienced beyond measure as his creature went to his rescue. She did the one thing she could manage, and that was dive out and into what looked like a cavernous escape. It ended up sending her crashing through brittle wood boards and into a bit of a free fall. Then, darkness and lost memory.

It was an hour before Olivia could summon the strength to be walking on her feet, and she was limping heavily as she managed.The wind was coming from somewhere and she had been slowly pursuing its path to what she hoped would be an escape. More painful walking and she saw the light she had been hoping for: the midnight blue sky and snowy wind . Dragging herself to the mouth of the cave she fought the urge to cry.

Awaiting her were three despair demons, and not a search party or ally to be seen. The will to live was flickering like a candle would in this weather. Olivia whimpered as they turned to face her, locking on their enemy with screeching voices that made her singing ears singe with pain.

Closing her eyes she held out her left hand as if asking her own limb to be her savior. Reaching out into the cold air she could feel them preparing to attack, and she held her breath.

Then, as if by virtue of a nonbeliever’s power of prayer, the anchor burst from her palm and ignited the surrounding scape in an aura of its own might. The despair demons cried louder but there was an echo to their wailing as they were stunned into submission. The crater of green and white pulsating and destroying them slowly, until all at once it snapped. Disappearing now with both its power and the demons as if they had never existed. Olivia opened her eyes and saw what her hand had done to save her, abandoning her once again to face the wilderness alone.

Alone, she concluded, is perhaps better.

Feeling the desire to fall to her knees and let the snow overcome her she could hear Blackwall’s roaring across the space between them. Don’t you dare! Look alive! But with the feeling of ice in her hair and her eyelashes, her lips almost numb beyond sensation, and all of the injuries she could only imagine she was carrying, was this what being alive looked like?

\--

She thought the snow could go on forever, endlessly an oblivion from which the only choice she could derive was where her final resting place would be. Would they ever find her, what was left of her, amidst this vast landscape? Would they ever know what became of her? Had she survived all that to simply fade into the night and the mountains like a spirit?

Towards the end Olivia walked with her eyes closed, focusing the dwindling energy she had on pushing forward. Her arms cradled to her chest in a criss-cross formation as if she were ready to lay herself to rest on a pyre. Her hip and her shoulder that had proven so painful were distant agonies now. Enduring their discomfort for this long heightened her threshold of caring about injury.

There had been one dismal hope within her lost world, and that was the remains of a campfire. Ashes relatively fresh for being out in the middle of a winter hellscape. She kept the image of it in her mind’s eye as she trekked for another mile. Then, feeling an incline begin, she opened her eyes against the iced win. Beyond the embankment was a mountain with what looked like an opening to a canyon embedded within it. The shapes and peaks were almost impossible to differentiate from the sky, but they were there. If she was to find any kind of refuge, it would be there, people or no people. However, her eyes also broke the news to her of her dizziness and faint consciousness: her vision distorting itself like a kaleidoscope of darkness.

_If I can just make it to just past the canyon opening, if I can just...make it._

One foot in front of the other, the snow coming up as high as her upper thigh in some parts. Every other step she felt as though she had to fight not to sink into it like the ocean. She was going to make it though, damn it all. She did not suffer this long to die submerged in the unknown. She would endure, she would survive, or she would never be seen again.

But Blackwall’s orders were impossible now. Falling to her knees as she got to the top of the incline, she slouched over her lap and exhaled. As she tried to keep breathing the world got hazier, more distant to the senses. She knew it wouldn’t be long until she would be unconscious. So much for having to break it to the world that she wasn’t cut out for this: her disappearance and demise would do it for her. Perhaps she would soon know just what became of her friends.

Her mind started to go haywire with memories and Olivia wondered if this was what people meant when they said life flashed before their eyes. What if death’s harbinger was remembering what life had meant to you. Her father’s coarse beard against her forehead as they sat by the fire, her place on his lap. The feeling of Orlesian thistle between her hands pricking her fingertips. The smell of cedar and ashe in the Ostwick air. Girls laughing and buttoning apprentice gowns. The smell of starch and powder on fresh linens.

Olivia shuddered when she heard the sound of a voice in her mind. _Gem, you gotta fight. Fight or don’t bother._

“R-Roslyn,” she shivered breathlessly, before her body went limp and her vision went dark.

_Maker, it’s the Herald!_

Then, nothing.

\--

“Firefly,” a man’s voice came with pressure on her arm. “You’re mumbling again.”

Olivia’s eyelids felt heavy but warm with sensation. At the sound of her nickname that was rarely used by anyone other than one loyal and gregarious dwarf, she tried to groan but choked a bit. Her throat was drier than the Hissing Wastes, and she would know that if she had ever seen them.

Her brow furrowed, framing her eyes that started to flicker back and forth.

“Mm,” she managed to utter, before laying her head away from the voice. Her neck muscles cringed with tension.

“Don’t argue with me, girl,” Varric smirked.

“Is she finally awake? I thought she had resigned to being an intemperate oracle,” a Tevinter polished accent echoed from further away.

“Hush, man. Let her wake up to something nice for a change.”

Olivia felt her eyelids at last open, and though her narrowed eyesight was hazy she could see reds and browns similar to a tent. Firelight cast shadows on them as she blinked slowly.

“V-Varr--” she mumbled as she rocked her head back in his direction. “Varric?” she said at last, her eyes landing on him. Varric, who had sat himself on some half-broken crate by her cot, elbows on his knees as he sat hunched over his lap. Bianca could not be far behind, but for once he had his focus on another capable and lethal feminine presence in his life.

“What a marvel. Spends the whole evening ranting and raving and when she wakes up, she stutters,” Dorian smirked with his arms folded. He had taken to leaning up against the tent post, looking smug but hiding the fact that he had been checking in on her every ten minutes almost precisely. Varric’s watch had only started about 45 minutes before she came to. Before him it was Josephine, and before her it was Mother Giselle.

Varric glanced Dorian’s way before turning his attention back on her. “Hey there, Firefly. How you feeling?”

Olivia swallowed dryly, too scared to move her body and see just how messed up she was. “F...Fine,” she breathed. Her hair had dried onto her skin around her forehead and neck, though mysteriously it was combed and rid of knots.

“Looks like you took quite the tumble,” Varric grinned, nodding towards the rest of her. Had she the gumption to look she would realize what he was talking about: her arm in a sling after being popped back into the socket of her shoulder joint, and her hip wrapped in gauze covering an array of abrasions that spanned the bulk of her upper right side. The bandage could only cover the most deep-cut parts. Without the ability to be completely re-dressed she was covered in a dense layering of blankets.

“I…” she inhaled a bit shallowly, feeling the weight of the wool over her body, “I jumped...from…ugh, Maker,” growling as she felt her head start to ache.

“No need to explain. Just rest up. They’ll be glad to--”

“And what will we do without an army?! Our forces have been destroyed!”

“...know you’re awake.”

Had Olivia not been pummeled by both enemy and nature she would have rolled her eyes hearing Commander Cullen’s arguing echo from the bonfire outside. But as it stood, she had little more than jaded fatigue to offer.

“She is not saying--!”

“Enough! This arguing is useless!”

An Orlesian tongue followed by a Nevarran, both aggravated by the sounds of it. Olivia closed her eyes and took a deep breath to support her need to verbally express herself. Noticing her frustration on her face, Varric chuckled.

“No, it never ends, I’m afraid,” he answered knowingly. Olivia sighed and resigned herself to stare up at the tent ceiling. What a way to realize you indeed survived a sure death: arguing and without the ability to stomp off. If she could perhaps she would run off into the snow and allow nature to finish the job the second time around.

“It is rather marvelous seeing some of the most capable minds the Empires have to offer gather around fireside to debate where their legion of tents, wood, and straw are to go from here if they are to save the world from itself. If I were any more a scoundrel than I am I would have ample comedic material to write home about,” Dorian commented in a calmer tone than he has used up until this point.

“Dorian, so help me, I--agh!” she tried to look up, but the pain of her healing shoulder joint corrected her temper. She rest back on the cot, deflated.

“Hah! There she is,” Dorian declared. “My reluctant partner in argument is not lost to me forever.”

Varric smirked with sympathy for the woman who’s patience seemed perpetually tested. “We can’t keep everyone from caring about your life.”

“Evi...dently,” Olivia groaned as she shifted herself a bit. “Where are we?”

“A canyon somewhere beyond Haven. We found it just beyond the escape route the Cleric knew about. It took some time to find, but not as much as it did for you, clearly.”

“Then...we survived?”

“Yeah, with little more than the clothes on our backs and whatever people could grab with their one hand whilst holding a weapon in the other. But, I’ve seen worse.”

Dorian chimed in once more, this time serious. “We are not out of the woods yet, Your Worship, but it is due to your reckless need to be a hero that grants us the privilege of getting to piss in them instead of lay dead. So, bravo!”

“...Wonderful,” Olivia sighed. “So we are arguing still, after all that?”

Varric sat tall, then, and put his hand on his thigh. “They are trying to figure out what the next step is. Admittedly, there is no rest for the wicked.”

Olivia eyed him from her periphery, a glimmer of good humor in them that reassured Varric that she wasn’t completely lost to the dire circumstances at hand. He smiled softly and stopped talking. In his mind, Olivia would have all the opportunity in the world to fill her time with debate and logistics. But she was still every inch a human being as a heroine, and humans typically needed some measure of calmness along with recovery.

“Varric, I need a favor,” Olivia muttered after a considerable silence.

“Anything, Firefly.”

“Can you…” she fell short of breath and took a moment, “can you please for the sake of everything in this...f-forsaken world... s-scratch my nose?”

Varric looked up and stared for a moment -- Olivia had closed her eyes and been scrunching her nose, tormented by whatever irritation had cursed her. The sight made him chuckle again as he reached a hand to her face, rubbing her nose with his gloved thumb.

“Well, when you put it that way."


	16. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the night wears on Olivia finds her patience even more depleted than she thought possible in the face of both pain and exhaustion. An unexpected visitor tests her ability to remain a calm and collected patient.

It was several nights after their encounter in the hallway that Olivia received a tap at her door. It was past midnight, yet she was busy with what kept her up most nights: nose in a book, candles burning in a mismatched assemblage around her small corner desk, and “borrowed” vials of test substances from the laboratory. Hearing the tap she thought it must be Theia, a frequent visitor whenever she couldn’t sleep or had quarreled with Veronica.

Scurrying to the door with a candle in hand, she opened the door with an expectant grin. Though it dropped the second she saw that head of dark, short hair rather than long pale blonde strands. Odessa, tucked in a night robe but with bare collarbones and chest, had come calling.

“Apprentice Cortiard?” Olivia whispered quickly, “what on Earth are you doing here?”

Odessa smiled and rest her hand on the doorway. “I have come to see if your opinions on good company have since changed.”

Olivia scoffed under her breath. “You are tempting the Templars with this nonsense. Go back to bed!”

“I would tempt the entire Imperial army, My Lady, if it would convince you to come away with me for but a moment.”

Her chest froze, and Olivia became almost like a statue in comparison to the flickering candlelight illuminating her face. All the while Odessa stared at her undaunted and sweet. Her confidence was what attracted all the other women like moths to a flame.

“I…” Olivia blinked fast, “I think you have the wrong impression of me, Apprentice. I cannot and will not go anywhere with you at so late an hour.”

“Please, call me Odessa. And before you shut the door in my face, I must ask one more privilege of you if you are to leave me brokenhearted in this desolate hallway.”

Olivia raised a brow and leaned against the side of the door. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

Odessa smirked, leaning in a bit closer to her as if she were to finagle her way inside. Though Olivia would not waver or concede her side; alas that was not exactly what she was after. She raised her open-palmed hand in front of the burning candle, her skin glowing with blue light. At once the candle became the host of an enchantment, the crystalline ice appearing and engulfing it all the way up to the quick where the flame was snuffed out decisively. Olivia blinked but had no time for much else; before she could further admonish her guest she felt the warmest and most supple lips on her mouth.

For as audacious as Apprentice Cortiard was, she kissed like a knightly gentleman. Neither too much, nor too little, and reaching a hand to caress the side of Olivia’s face. Olivia felt her heart race and stop at the same time, if that sort of thing was possible. Her mind, full of thoughts and endless questions, quieted as decisively as her candle had been blown out. Odessa knew how to kiss women. In that moment, Olivia felt as if there was a category of knowledge she needed to conquer like all the rest, and it was everything to do with Odessa’s existence.

But for as swiftly as Odessa had embraced her, she pulled away. Staying close, so close her breath blew across Olivia’s cheeks making her blush, she smiled smugly. Her thumb stroked her cheek.

“That will be all, Apprentice Sinclair,” she breathed with her eyes on her parted lips. And in another few heartbeats she was gone.

Olivia stood there awestruck, her fingers going to the side of her face where Odessa had touched. Of all the unfoldings that could have come from a tap at the door, she had certainly never expected that. And yet, it was as if she had vindicated a most carnal daydream within her soul. Odessa, by some form of reckless chance, had awakened a dormant dialect in the confines of her soul. A craving, an understanding of her own tastes.

Taking a breath she contained herself, waving her own hand over the frozen candle and conjuring a dispel echantment. Watching as the wax promptly thawed, she sighed. Not even women like Lady Odessa Cortiard were worth ruining a precious and needed candle.

\--

After another hour of intermittent banter between the Inquisitor and Varric, it was at last his turn to go off and rest. Olivia was lulled into shallow consciousness after he left, doing her best to fend off sleep. The healers had given her sleep aids to help her recovery without knowing her strong aversion for it. She did not blame them, but as her mind phased in and out of senseless loopiness, she felt resentful that she was not coherent enough to warn them against it.

In her solitude, Olivia was anything but concerned or curious as to who would replace her bedside companion. So when the Seeker herself slid in through the drawn tent curtain, she was a fraction of the discontent she would normally be. To be fair, the level she was at was still considerable.

At first Cassandra remained quiet as she stood with her back facing the tent drape, pausing to stare at her. Her eyes were closed, but her face was tense -- unsurprising for the ruckus she caused during her medical procedures. This was the first time she had gotten a look of her since finding her looking like an ice sculpture with the Commander. She then crept over to the crate where everyone else had sat at attention, and took up her post. The wood cracked underneath her and made her flinch with embarrassment.

Olivia’s eyes shot open, and she turned to see who it was that had come. Locking eyes with Cassandra who was caught off guard for once by her own clumsiness, she raised a brow.

“I now see why the Divine did not elect you as her Left Hand,” Olivia muttered.

Cassandra felt blush in her cheeks as she settled in. This night had been arduous and testing, and the last thing she needed was to be made aware of her various other shortcomings. But, as it was the the woman who risked her own life for the sake of everyone’s escape, who stayed behind to face a monster and a possible arch demon, she could swallow her pride a bit longer.

“That, and many other sensible reasons,” she replied, placing her hands on her lap. “How are you feeling?  
Olivia inhaled slowly. “As well as you could imagine. I will be skipping by morning, though.”

“Somehow, I do not think that entirely impossible.”

“No? I have to up my game of defying expectations, then, if it is all becoming predictable.”

Cassandra watched as Olivia laid her head back. Surely she of all people could give it a rest for surprises. A moment passed without talking, and with a slight awkward tension that had lingered from their less-than-chummy dynamic at Haven. This was the first one-on-one time they had since Olivia had asked her to ride the trail with her, where she rejected any friendly futurity between them before it could start.

“I am told that I caused quite a stir when they brought me here,” Olivia at last spoke, closing her eyes as the sleep aids’ effects continued to fight her commitment to consciousness.

Cassandra looked back at her and felt a pang of soreness in her chest. Olivia hadn’t just caused a stir, she made everyone terrified. No one had ever seen her unconscious or asleep, but they assumed she could be both those things rather benignly. Much to their surprise an unconscious Herald was anything but restful.

“Do you want the honest answer?”

“Yes, why would I bother to ask you if I didn’t?”

Cassandra raised a brow, looking off to the other side of the tent. Her face was thoughtful, even whilst dealing with Olivia’s forthcoming attitude.

“We found you on your knees in the snow at the mouth of the canyon. The Commander carried you back to camp where the Healers assessed your injuries. You had a dislocated shoulder and multiple internal wounds. Since you were already unconscious they did not administer a heavy sedative, a choice I imagine they regretted later on.”

“How horrible was I?” Olivia pushed further, tilting her chin.

“You screamed so loudly it echoed into the canyon. It…” Cassandra took a moment to settle the sound of her in her mind, the sound that made her spine shudder. “You sounded as if you were being attacked. I had only heard such a sound once before.”  
“When was that? In some battlefield or nightmare of yours?”

“No. When you were imprisoned after the Conclave.”

Olivia opened her eyes and gazed back at her. There was sincerity in her face, not that she would ever suspect Cassandra capable of jest. So, the truth of how diabolical she could be while knocked out was anything but concealed. Not once, but twice now she had displayed the most mortifying aspect of her “personality.”

“I see,” she exhaled softly. “Well, is that twice now that I should be thankful you did not think me a possessed abomination meriting execution?”

Cassandra widened the gap between her knees, resting her elbows on her thighs as Varric had done. Though she seemed a bit more uptight. “Contrary to your opinion of me, Herald, I do not always act upon first impulse.”

Olivia winced a bit, feeling a dull pain growing stronger by the minute from her side. The pain medicines must be wearing off, she thought. At least it would help her stay awake now. Cassandra’s eyes flickered in reaction, but she did not push it. She never knew when Olivia would bite back, especially when wounded and stuck in one place.

“So, what now, then? Are you to tell me a bedtime story?” Olivia sighed as she rested her hand on her abdomen. “Give me the full report of everything I did that was questionable in virtue?”

“I am to do what everyone else before me has done, and ensure you have proper assistance should you require anything. If that would be helpful in your recovery process, I can always oblige,” she replied with a sly grin forming on her face. It made Olivia suspicious, and as much as she wanted to egg her on for being so smug she found herself too tired to fight back.

“Agh, very well,” the Herald conceded. “All that I ask is that you do not allow me to fall asleep.”

“Is that where the episodes come from?”

“That is none of your concern.”  
Cassandra looked back at her and her striking gold eyes that seemed to have flamed their brightness to newer levels in the face of her nosiness. Being slightly surprised, she blinked. After her brash response, Olivia quickly realized she had let her defensive nature slip. Blinking a few times to stifle their unnatural luminescence, she looked away.

“Forgive me. I do not wish to discuss my earlier behavior anymore. I--agh!” she cried as she reached and clutched her wounded arm. She grit her teeth as the pain became more acute. In return, Cassandra flinched upwards, halfway rising from her seat.

“I can send for the H--”

“No, no, please do not!” Olivia hissed, waving her hand at her to sit down. Cassandra hesitantly obeyed, though something in her knew she probably would have been smarter to keep going. She felt a bit guilty thinking that the Herald had gone this majority of the evening relatively stable, and now that she was here to keep her company her agony decided to return. Holding her breath, she watched and Olivia settled herself down again.

“The medicine…” Olivia breathed a bit laborious, “it makes me sleepy. I can’t keep fighting it off.”

“But Herald, you must rest in order to adequately recover.”

Olivia glanced at her. “I need to be left alone, is what I need. Left alone and with enough fudge cookies to fill an entire blasted Chantry Hall. Oh, and at least ten roasted chicken legs. And while you are at it, a butcher’s cleaver so that I can rid myself of this hand and ride off somewhere temperate, perhaps even tropical. Somewhere I can dance naked on a beach and never see another soul. Just me and my snow-white behind and my one hand and my chocolate! And my chicken!”

Olivia was fuming, and unfortunately there was no medicine known to man that could heal lost patience. It didn’t help that contrary to what she expected, Cassandra seemed to stifle something. Something that looked eerily like a desire to laugh. When her eyes lit up, and she put the back of her hand to her mouth, Olivia was almost certain she had become the butt of her own joke.

“Seeker Pentaghast if you decide now of all nights to prove to me that you are in fact capable of having a sense of humor whilst I am suffering so, you can do me a favor and sod off.”

“I would not dream of it, H--” she bit back more harshly, shaking her head as if she were snapping herself out of a hallucination. “Maker’s mercy. Forgive me. It will not happen again,” she said with a residual grin.

“Good. Thank you.”

“Should I be off to find five chickens and an Orlesian bakery, then, or am I to believe you contented now with my company alone?”

“If you can manage, by all means, because I sure am not planning on going for a barenaked swim in the snow.”

Cassandra looked back over her far shoulder and bit her lip. Unable to suppress a chuckle, she folded her arms and sat up straight. “Herald, I find it remarkable that you are able to be so beloved whilst harboring a most vitriolic temper.”

Olivia sighed and rest her chin against her shoulder nearest to where Cassandra sat. She did not immediately respond, preferring to stew on the duality she had so pointedly illuminated. The Herald had been known within her close relations for secretly packing a punch, though it had taken years to arise from both trauma and love alike. It wasn’t always the most healthy because of that nourishing dichotomy. Still, it alarmed her that Cassandra was catching onto her mismatched nature.

“I have no idea what you are talking about. I am a peach, to be sure.”  
“You may have magical abilities, Your Worship, but not to that extent as far as I know.”

“Then perhaps you should think twice before eating a peach you find somewhere it would otherwise not be naturally found.”

“Your wisdom is duly noted. I will be ever-vigilant.”

“Good. I’d hate to think the world demonize you for taking a bite out of their Herald of Andraste.”

Olivia shifted the weight of her resting body, tilting her body as she felt awkward for the way she worded that last sentence. Her temper had run away with her yet again, and she never felt closer in spirit to Theia than when this happened. Though Lady Trevelyan always seemed more masterful of her wit than Olivia could be. She peeked at Cassandra who seemed none the worse for wear, and in fact quite entertained. All things considered this was perhaps the most pleasant conversation they had yet to have.

“Would you prefer me to leave and send someone less taxing on your patience?” Cassandra asked finally, scooting a boot heel across the ground. Olivia tilted her head in her direction. It was an opportunity her mind said to take without question. She could be rid of her and her glare, her decisive criticisms, and her retorts for the night. Perhaps Sera or Blackwall could replace her and be fun and lighthearted with her, or dote on her ego. What an ideal exchange that would be.

“I...I will not send you away, Seeker, on one most important condition.”

Cassandra smirked, leaning forward over her haunches again. “Name it, Herald.”

“That you, under the bounds of a most serious secrecy for which betrayal would certainly mean the loss of your life, allow me to hold your hand.”

Cassandra’s face shifted from one of cleverness to genuine surprise. Olivia, the woman who distanced herself at every given opportunity from the likes of her Seeker ally, making a request such as this? Why, and was she up to something even amidst recovering from extensive injury?

“I…” Cassandra hesitated, rubbing the back of her neck roughly, “may I ask for what reason?”

Olivia narrowed her eyes, seeing the way she reacted as if now the Herald was going soft. “I need something to brace against, and it is either that or a block of wood between my teeth. I thought this option may be more favorable, since I would rather not add “chipped teeth” to the list of accrued wounds,” she replied nonchalantly.

“Oh. I see,” the Seeker took a breath and rolled her shoulders back. This was a most unusual request and one Cassandra could not think of a precedent for in her life. Normally she would dismiss it and anything to do with unprofessional conduct, but given that Olivia had done so much at the expense of her own health and security she thought one exception would surely not be the end all, be all. Strangely where she would normally be reserved, Olivia’s need seemed to disarm her.

“Very well, I…” she went blank again as Olivia reached and took hold of her hand, pulling it back with her to rest on the side of the cot. It was a simple hold, her fingers together and curled around Cassandra’s as if she was being invited to dance. There was no softness or hunger in her hold -- it was all an exchange of need, allyship in its most curious form.

Olivia looked away from her then, and closed her eyes as she laid her head flat on the cot pillow. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slow, she accepted the peculiar state of affairs she had found herself in. “Thank you, Seeker.”

Cassandra had frozen from the moment she had touched her hand, and stared at her outstretched arm for a moment. Hearing Olivia’s appreciation, she blinked and swallowed shallowly. She wanted to say something, but nothing came to mind. How could you respond to such a bizarre occurrence? Instead, she turned her attention to making her own self more comfortable. Reaching and pulling the crate out from underneath her she opted to sit on the ground, using the crate as a backrest for her. Bending her knees up against her chest, she tucked her free hand underneath her thigh.

And from then on out, she was stuck. Or at Her Worship’s kind service. The lines had been blurred a bit.

\--

About a half hour after their interaction, the tent window opened and shined a fissure of soft light across Cassandra’s face that provoked her to open her eyes. It was Leliana of all people, perhaps the worst to witness what Cassandra had been convinced to do. Sister Nightingale, after all, was notorious for having dirt on people that she did not easily let go of. It would be months, perhaps even years, before she’d let go of anything indicating Seeker Pentaghast had a soft side. But for this visit, her first motivation was business: holding in her hand a rough piece of ripped parchment in hand and expecting to visit a recovering Herald. To her surprise, she saw Olivia with her head resting against her opposite shoulder and eyes closed, assumed to be asleep. Then she saw the Seeker, who looked as if she had been falling asleep on her shift, hand being tightly held by the patient.

“I have the rough estimates of raw materials,” Leliana whispered as she stepped inside, holding out the folded paper her way. As she drew nearer it became evident she was rather startled -- in a clever way -- by what she had come to find in the Herald’s tent.

Cassandra blinked a few times and cleared her vision, and the dread of knowing Leliana was seeing this replaced her tranquil fatigue.

“Yes, thank you,” she said dismissively as she reached conservatively, taking the paper from her and flattening it across her thigh.

Leliana nodded and lingered, a brow ever-so-slightly raised. “She has been well attended to, no?” she said in a hushed, but teasing tone.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed as she glanced back up to her. “Not now, Leliana.”

“Very well. It gives me something to look forward to later,” she smirked, and saw herself out of the tent with no further word. She didn’t need Cassandra to be a chatterbox about this; Josephine would, as she always did, prove more than adequate in that regard. Cassandra knew this too, which is why she felt self-conscious as she read through the list and numbers of their remaining resources. This was most unbecoming of an Inquisition agent, and a Seeker in service to that cause. She knew better than to agree to such circumstances.

Yet, every time she peered over at their hands, whether it was in response to a change in Olivia’s grip or otherwise, she never could quite make the decision to retract.


	17. You Gossamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery for Olivia quickly becomes unruly as she tests the boundaries of her physical capabilities. Doing one of her favorite things and few salvations in this time of her life, she goes for a scouting ride that quickly turns the tide for her life.

“Your Worship, are you certain this is wise?!” Ambassador Montilyet cautioned as she walked expediently behind an even more adamant Herald with an arm in a fresh new linen sling. It had been a couple of days since the siege at Haven, and with the clear blue sky over their heads Olivia had grown tired of waiting in a cot to recover. She could only take so much of alternating company and “nap” times she could not enjoy.

“Ambassador, all due respect, if I don’t get on a horse in the next ten minutes I will either pull my hair that you have so kindly braided out of my head, or engulf it in flames,” Olivia said as she put one riding glove in her mouth, freeing up her hand to slip the other onto her indisposed hand.

“But you do not even have full use of your arm, and your other injuries have yet to heal!” Josephine persisted, hands on her hips as they came to stand by an assemblage of wood crate boxes. As they came to a stop, she noticed a scout bringing a tacked up horse out from the center of camp by order of Andraste’s wounded Chosen.

“Your Worship, I implore you to reconsider.”

Olivia turned back to face her and dropped the glove from her mouth into her hand, sliding it on with a little more tenderness. “Lady Montilyet, I promise you, if you could not shake me after an avalanche and a would-be arch-demon, I am not going to break from a Scout’s ride to the north.” She then smiled to the Scout who had kindly escorted her steed to her, taking the reins from him and swinging them over her horse’s neck.

Patting its neck she smirked, locking eyes with the sweet animal. “I am glad you, too, survived,” she cooed before moving on to adjust the stirrups on her mounting side.

“At least allow for some assistance in mounting--”

“Josie, are you scolding the Herald?” Leliana called out as she approached, hands behind her back. At her side Cassandra also watched with slight concern. The two women looked as if they had been alerted by a most peculiar sound from across camp, only to discover it was the arguments of a careful Antivan and a stubborn Orlesian.

Olivia chuckled under her breath, yanking the stirrup down. “Not at all, Leliana, she was simply educating me on the perils of cavalry,” she teased.

Josephine folded her arms as she faced their two visitors. “Surely, one of you can convince her that riding so soon after extensive injury is insensible!” she said as she dug her heels into the issue. Clearly, being on shift for the Herald’s bedside companion had triggered Josephine’s older sister mentality, and perhaps it had began to overwhelm her professional nature.

“Your Worship,” Leliana greeted as she and the Seeker came to stand still, “when I sent the logistics of our scouting efforts, I did not mean it as an order to do it yourself.”  
“I know, I am volunteering,” Olivia replied as she dusted snow off of her knee-high riding boots. “I am fine, I ride one-handed most often anyhow. I need space or I will go mad.”  
Leliana’s brow raised and she gazed back to Josephine. She knew that flicker of restless energy in Olivia’s eyes all-too-well, and related to its fervor. Being injured as a busybody was a bleaker curse than most.

“It seems we are overruled, Josie.”

“You two are incorrigible,” Josephine sighed, before moving onto the Seeker herself. “Lady Pentaghast, you must have some logic to bring to this dilemma.”

Cassandra, who had not taken her eyes off of Olivia as she prepared herself to mount her horse, had to try hard to fend off the grin she wished to show. The way Olivia’s eyes and face were all wrapped up in the anticipation of being free, being capable again. The Seeker blinked, retaining her senses as she placed a hand on her hip. She looked back at the Ambassador and reformed her expression to one of acute temperance.

“If the Herald believes herself capable of riding, perhaps it is best if we allow her to. She has proven herself proficient enough for the undertaking.”

Hearing her vote of confidence, Olivia stopped and looked her way, her lips parting as she escaped the Seeker’s critical disposition once again. That was happening more often lately; maybe being injured was the way into Cassandra’s good favor. Victorious as she smiled, she turned and saw Josephine most unsatisfied with the results of her lobbying. No allies and no way to boss the Herald out of getting on her horse, she was spinning with the concern of a sibling.

“Ambassador,” Olivia comforted as she faced her head on, “when I return you can admonish me as much as you wish. I promise.”

“Rest assured, I will not need permission in order to do so. Be careful, if you please,” Josephine folded her arms, nodding in her direction most politely given her frustration. She then spun around and walked of deliberately. Her behavior caused Leliana to smirk as she watched her go.

“She has always been the most diligent when it comes to injuries, believe me,” the Spymaster comforted as she returned her stare at Olivia. “I am sure I do not need to tell you to not ride too far, Herald. My people are fast on foot, but not that fast.”

“Of course, Leliana. What, you think me making my great escape?” Olivia smirked in good humor.

“Not at all. Though, I would be intrigued to see you try,” Leliana replied, a crooked grin as she turned to the side. “Until later, Your Worship.”

Olivia watched her with an eyebrow raised, an unspoken understanding between them that neither were to be underestimated. Though in this case it was Leliana who held more cards -- if Olivia did choose to break from the group, she would probably become the most hunted woman in the Fereldan Frostbacks at least. A fair maiden with a green, glowing left hand was hardly missable.

Hearing her horse stomp the ground behind her, Olivia blinked and refocused on her endeavor. Now with nothing holding her back all there was left to do was get her ass on the horse and be off. She was fortunate her slinged arm was her right one considering she was to mount on the left side like all proper riders did, though it also meant a lack of gripping ability. Taking a breath as she gathered her reins into her good hand she slipped her foot in the stirrup and did a few preparatory hops to gather momentum. Her left arm held close to her chest made her feel off-kilter, but she was going to give it an honest try for the sake of herself and her ego. One last hop and she went for it, pushing all her weight into her stirrup foot and pulling herself up. Despite her tenacity she could feel herself starting to fall back -- the horse was too tall for her to manage it on one arm’s worth of upper body strength alone.

There was a moment where she felt herself arrive at an impasse halfway up the side of the saddle. Her frustration brewed hotter in a split second. But, before she could feel the full defeat she felt two hands on either side of her hips press and push her back up -- a solid shove making quick work of her petite frame even with light armor. Her eyes widened as she felt herself rising, swinging a leg around and managing to find her seat. Her horse grew excited, side-stepping a bit. The saddle felt good, even with her sore hips aching and cracking as they adjusted to the position. Being up in the air and not in a cot rotting away was Heaven-sent. For a fleeting moment she felt nothing but relieved. Turning back to look down at the source of her additional strength she saw the Seeker, letting her hands fall to her sides and then gathering them behind her waist.

“Ride well, Herald,” she said, looking self-satisfied.

Olivia’s eyes remained widened, but she cleared her throat and looked down at her saddle pommel. It was too early in the day for appearing silly and phased by having hands on her in less-than-benign places as if she were a pubescent teenager again.

“Yes, thank you,” she said officially, deepening her voice beyond what it normally registered so as to come across as serious.

Cassandra bit back a smirk and bowed her head, stepping backwards a few feet so as to linger her gaze. A moment more and she was walking back to the heart of camp without another word.

Olivia watched her go from her periphery, still trying to conceal her reaction. _She must think we’re such good friends now,_ she grumbled to herself as her horse danced in place. Biting at the inside of her cheek she tightened her reigns and squeezed pointedly with her heels. Her horse responded with vigor, leaping into a canter and taking off down the hillside and toward the canyon mouth. The farther she could get, the better.

\--

The valley that unfolded before her was massive and lined sparsely with collectives of pines. As her horse carved their path through the heights of untouched snow freshly fallen on over the night, her eyes were near closed from the overwhelming brightness. Leliana’s reports said, in agreement with Solas’s advice, to scout north and pursue refuge. But first they needed to know what going north meant, what it looked like, and if it could be manageable for a large caravan of people and supplies.

Riding without the use of her arm was slightly unnerving -- even though she bragged about being a one-handed rider, being one involuntarily was less comfortable. She remembered what her Father would say to his mentees, recruits to the Imperial army who would visit the Manor ever so often: riding is about assuming you cannot be dismounted. If you believe you can be torn out of that saddle, you do not belong on it in the first place. Olivia never got to have her Father as a riding teacher, but that didn’t mean she never bothered to listen when voices echoed from the parlor rooms or the study.

When she was about a mile and a half from the canyon she started feeling stirrings of something she could not fully interpret. Her mana began to surge, as if she were in the company of other Mages or the magic of the Breach. With neither in close enough proximity she pulled her horse to a stop by a grouping of trees and let it circle as she looked around. Nothing and no one but untouched valley, powdered snow perfect in its complexion beyond the trail they had dug up in their wake. Her slinged hand clutched itself into a fist. Perhaps Solas was out scouting or doing whatever it was he busied himself with alone, but it did not feel like his presence or his magic.

She tugged on her reins yielding her horse to a stop as she collected her breath. Her fatigue would mean her magic would be dulled, not alert; to sense someone’s mana was not without sensitivity, especially in a desolate countryside. Why would she be picking up its traces if she was not in top shape and alone?

 _You humans are always grasping at knowledge beyond your understanding._ Corypheus’s voice echoed in her mind, deep and sinister. His image, his hold on her arm, his voice had haunted her these past days. So much so she felt lucky for not depending on sleep, for surely his likeness would be there to greet her in her nightmares. His disgusting cynicism pervaded her inner dialogue as she sought to understand what he was. A Magister? A demon? Something in between? Whatever he was he was out there, somewhere, undoubtedly interested in whether or not she survived her gamble. The thought of him lurking unnerved her to the point where, senses or no senses, staying in one place was a no-go. She gathered her grip and asked her horse to reconvene their path in a gallop this time.

Coming to a ridgeline path she egged on her horse to conquer it, settling into a lofty jog as they overcame a sharp but shallow incline up onto the path. Trees started to line the way, creating cover for her. This seemed to be an aged path unburdened by use in some time. It probably led to nowhere, or at least ruins of some scout post or trader’s shack. As it became more even ground, though, she wondered just what lay at the end of it. As she rode, the peace of her activity was curbed by anxiety: what if she came across a rift, and was all alone to fight its demons? The Scouts reported no sightings but that could always change. If there was no rhyme or reason to their appearances surely one could simply spawn and call upon the anchor in her left hand to seal it. She had made considerable progress in her training, but fighting a rift solo was something still beyond her level of fragile confidence.

So it was with bated breath she pursued this trail until at last she came to a small let-off within the trees. It seemed to be a resting site for travelers, though there was no fortified structure. A fire pit lay ashen with no snow on it, telling her it had been used recently enough to worry about visitors. Pulling on the reins until her horse eased into a fast walk she rode up to it with vigilant eyes scanning the tree line. Coming to a halt in front of the pit, she took one last look around, listening in.

Not a single noise, from animal or otherwise, to be heard. There were no footprints, no tracks to decipher who or what had come to use this spot. Perhaps she was wrong to think anyone had been here, and her musings were that of a paranoid former rogue. She took a breath; if she was to dismount, that would mean having to mount alone again, and without a surprisingly handsy Seeker to assist her she would have to find something to stand on. A moment whilst she estimated if it was worth it, hands flexing within the tight fit of her gloves.

Her choice was decided for her the moment an arrow shot fast through the air, racing past the right side of her head and into the trees. The next thing she knew her horse half-reared in alarm, roaring at the whistling sound. Olivia gasped and turned her head, tightening the reins and scrambling for a good grip with one hand. Pulling her horse’s front around with her as she turned to see who it was that had deployed the shot. A woman dressed in dark leather, jacket and breeches that were roughed up and monochromatic. She was hooded and scarved making only her eyes visible, and from about 15 yards out that was an impossible indicator to use.

Olivia felt her breath shiver as she held her horse back from taking off. What would a random woman be doing here alone with seemingly nothing but a bow and arrow? Hunters were light on their feet, but not that light. The woman redrew another arrow from behind and pulled it back into launching position, but this time she delayed her release. The maneuver was swift, instinctive. But then the stranger saw the face of the woman on horseback, and something stopped her. The blonde hair tied back and neat, her oval face with rounded cheekbones. She was familiar, but her being atop a animal restlessly moving around made it hard for her to see for sure.

Olivia’s breath created a cloud steam around her as she spoke low to her horse, trying her best to steady it. Her priorities were torn between that and seeing who this person was.

“Identify yourself!” she yelled across the ground, her horse throwing its head but calming the rest of its body. “I am of no danger to you unless you are to me!”

The figure held her arrow at the ready, refusing to stand down. She looked skeptical, to be sure, from her body language. Olivia felt her heart skip a beat as the stranger began to side-step, head tilted into her arrow hand as she did so. So, was this to be an introduction, or finding a better angle for her shot? Regardless, Olivia was not simply going to gallop off and make herself a moving target. Her horse seemed to disagree with her judgment but had calmed enough to where she only had to maintain some nervous stomping.

The stranger was as quiet as death as they moved, trudging through the snow. Olivia could only hear the clanking of metal in her horse’s bridle as it played with the bit between its teeth.

“Are you hard of hearing? I said identify yourself!” she commanded again.

“Gem?!”

Olivia’s chest hollowed out. The woman stopped in her tracks about 7-8 years in front of her and now able to see her face more clearly. When she did she relaxed her bow and arrow, holding it downward as she stared.

“Who are you?!”

At once, the woman irreverently tossed her bow and arrow to the ground, letting them sink into the snow. Her hands then went to her hood and scarf, yanking them back and out of her face. She revealed an pale, angular face, oval with a strong chin and jawline. Her eyes were dark but not without color. Her scarf was heather grey and looked as if it were a muslin material -- and Olivia realized that she had seen one just like it. The one she left tied to a column at the Temple ruins.

But that all seemed irrelevant when she saw the detail that proved everything she both feared and wished for: the woman’s head of ice white, pearlescantly shining hair, thick and falling out of her hood.

Olivia’s lips parted, and she froze in her seat. She could feel it, then: their mana, rekindling and conversing across the distance. The dancing of heat and ice, the duality within them. It was not harsh or oppositional. Then, the interference of an electric element -- a humming of vibrations throughout it all. Their imbued abilities had been very, very old friends. It all made sense then, her earlier sensations of something magical. It was no enemy or threat to her life -- it was another Mage wandering the terrain as she was.

 _Maker,_ Olivia swore in her mind.

_It is Theia._


	18. Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having reunited with her best friend, Olivia finds herself at a crossroads. Does she recommit to the life she had led before the Conclave and her loyalties, or does she take a chance on the precarious nature of her role as the Herald and a member of the Inquisition?

For as graceful and steady as Olivia’s mounting had been, it was as reckless in the dismount as she fell into Theia’s open arms. Her horse was most displeased by the sharp uptick in clumsy enthusiasm, but nonetheless stayed near as the women laughed and screamed and cried. Even an aching arm in a sling could not stop the Herald of Andraste from feeling the boundless surge of euphoria that came from seeing, touching, and hearing her dearest friend. She wasn’t a ghost. She was real, and she had found her.

Once that was over, and they were done petting each other’s heads of blonde hair until braids came undone, there was the matter of questions.

“Theia, I cannot even begin to describe how happy I am to see you!” Olivia giggled as she kept her hands on Theia’s waist. She looked into her purple irises and could see their elated glow, and she could only wonder how bright her own eyes looked.

“Gem, I--hah!” Theia tried to contain her flabbergasted laughter, “I thought you were dead and gone for the longest time. It wasn’t until--” she stopped and held up her scarf, the scarf that had been left at the ruins as a memorial that became a beacon of hope. Olivia laughed, taking it into her own hands.

“This silly scarf, I owe it my life,” she said as she shook her head.

“Up until I found it we thought you lost to us.”

“Us?!”

Theia smiled broadly, taking the scarf and wrapping it between her hands. “Me, Roslyn, Naomi, Veronica. All of us.”

Olivia lost her breath, then, and began to cry without warning or prelude. It was a gasp, a sharp release of tears welled from her eyes in record time. She put her hand to her mouth and began to coo and wail, reaching for her and grabbing a fistful of Theia’s vest leather.

“You are playing with me!” she said brittly.

“I would never! Well, not now,” Theia giggled as she pulled her dear friend in for a hug, tucking her in tightly to her chest. “Later I may prove most fiendish.”

“You!” Olivia growled, lightly punching against Theia’s chest. Otherwise she had completely surrendered to her friend’s embrace. Even though she had no experience qualifying the comparison, Olivia would wager that this was the way it would feel to die and be held by someone Holy in the afterlife. Something pure in its reckoning, and after a long, miserable journey. As she was held she felt strands of Theia’s hair that had fallen down over her chest. She touched and held them between her fingers, feeling their softness that once smelled of spice and incense smoke every day without fail.

“You being alive makes me feel like a believer again, Theia-Bird,” Olivia said as she sniffled.

Theia smirked, closing her eyes as she rest her cheek on Olivia’s head. “Now, now, don’t go losing your mind.’  
“How else can I explain this moment but divine intervention?”

“Simple. It was magic.”

Olivia pulled away with eyes narrowed toward her clever but nauseating friend. Slapping the side of her arm again as she groaned. “That does not help things, Theia!”

Her horse had taken to foraging through the snow for anything worth eating, but for now she was not going anywhere. As it stood she would have limited time anyway before she would be hunted down as Leliana so sweetly warned. That was a far-away thought, though, as she and Theia walked to the overlook edge and began to talk.

“I have so many questions, Theia,” Olivia said as she held her arm cradled to her chest, protective of her injury. “Why did you not find me? Where have you been?”

Theia sighed, a crooked grin on her lips as she folded her arms. “I...well, where do you want me to begin?”

“Anywhere, anything, just make sense of it for me.”

“Fine, I’ll start at the wake of the explosion then. You have to remember I hadn’t seen any of you in a month, so, forgive me if it is a bit scatterbrained.”

“Theia.” Olivia eyed her, not giving a damn about those details anymore. When your friend was thought dead but somehow appeared in the middle of the snowy woodlands, you feel inclined to make those sorts of concessions. But she saw in Theia’s guilty face the truth of how it had lingered with her heart, even after she thought Olivia lost.

“When the explosion happened I was outside the grounds. I had gone for a walk -- can you believe that? I sound as if I am a caricature from some cheesy novel, the luck I have.”  
“Yes, you do. Continue, please,” Olivia smirked and rolled her eyes.

“Hah, fine! Fine. But it was there where Veronica found me. She started yelling my ear off to the point where I had to drag her and my sorry ass somewhere private, lest she grab the attention of some Templars or Chantry snobs. We found a small, shallow cave about a quarter mile from the Temple’s gates, off the main road. Naomi and Roslyn had tracked her and followed us as I later found out.”

“So...so I was alone, in the Temple?”

“Yes -- don’t you remember?”

Olivia’s smile faded. She was reminded in their reminiscing of her amnesia for most of her time in the Temple, an apparent side effect to the explosion she miraculously survived. She had nothing to compare Theia’s storyline to, nothing to add. In her solemnity Theia had her answer.

“You...you don’t remember, do you?”

“I can’t remember anything from the time I infiltrated the Temple until I woke up in the--” she stopped herself, gritting her jaw a bit as she looked out at the landscape. “The prison cell.”

“Prison cell?!”

“I was detained. They found me in the aftermath and thought me the cause of the explosion, since I was the only survivor. That and...Theia, something has happened.”

Theia’s eyes narrowed as she looked on with confusion, watching her friend put her left hand to her mouth. With her own teeth Olivia bit and pulled her glove off of her anchored hand. From the surge of excitable energy in her mana the anchor was glowing green, brewing but not exposed. It was just enough to show her friend what had been done to her, though by whom or what she did not know.

“Maker’s arse, Olivia, what is this?!” Theia gasped as she took hold of it, holding it open as she examined it.

“Solas said it is most likely Elvhen magic.”

“Solas? Who is that?”

“He’s...he’s an apostate Elf with the Inquisition.”

Theia looked up and shot her a look of vague horror. Inquisition? Since when was there a Holy War upending the world, and why was Olivia of all people a part of it? With care she let go of her friend’s hand and took a step back.

“What I do not understand is why they left me alone in the Temple. The girls, I mean,” Olivia said as she struggled successfully to re-glove her hand. “I remember Veronica. I remember…oh, sod it,” she cursed.

“Veronica was near inconsolable when she found me. Perhaps she wasn’t thinking as well as she usually does.”

“I suppose so. Where are they? You said they survived, you can’t be here alone?”she asked as she turned to face her with full attention. It was then she saw Theia’s look shift into one of uneasiness. It made her worried for what she was about to hear: perhaps they survived the calamity only to perish somewhere else.

“The girls...they left.”

“Left?!”

“Olivia, I can explain.”

“Theia Sofia Trevelyan we came all this way, did all that tracking, to find you and you have the boldness to tell me now that it was all so you could disband us again?!”

“I did no such thing! Not...not until things become impossible to sustain without leaving you behind entirely, and Veronica made it more difficult. Then, we all thought it best if we went out separate ways. We thought you were dead, Olivia! You would be surprised what the group is without you.”

“And what is that like, exactly? What did Veronica do that was so terrible, you endured her misadventures with utmost devotion before!”

Theia grit her teeth and looked away. These pains were not healed, nor were they resolved in the right way. The sting of them yet lived within her chest. Even Olivia could see it, though her distress at knowing the girls where wayward on their individual paths with no backup, no solidarity, scared her more than Theia’s hurt feelings.

“When the explosion happened, I was bent on finding you. It took Veronica and Roslyn having to hold me down in hiding whilst the Chantry and Imperial soldiers frenzied. They arrested you by virtue of you being alive, did they not? Veronica was convinced they’d detain us for mysteriously appearing after it. Even with my clout, a magical explosion does not bode well for a lone surviving Mage, let alone four.”

“So, you...she…”

“We had to abandon searching for you. For a time. Olivia, I cannot tell you how much it tortured me, tortured us to not know. We stayed in the mountains for weeks, albeit in caves for most of it. That thing in the sky made the wilderness so dangerous we could hardly be out for more than an hour or two at a time.”

Olivia turned her shoulders away as she stared off, only taking in the sound of her friend’s voice. She understood why it was so impossible but it hurt her nonetheless: her friends were her lifeblood, and to know that they kept their distance betrayed her absolute loyalty she would have acted upon were the roles reversed. But, then, that may have also ended with her losing her life to the dangers Theia mentioned. The safety of the group in that situation had to be weighed heavier than the safety one one person.

Pity, for it was her choice to do the opposite that sent Veronica, and then Olivia, after Theia’s sorry ass.

“Olivia,” Theia sighed, letting her hands fall to her sides. “You have to know I did not lose sight of finding you. That is why I am here, after all. I waited alone for weeks in hiding after the girls left. I didn’t want to leave without knowing what became of you. A few days ago when the lights shining from the ruins disappeared, I investigated to see what had happened, and it was then I found your scarf. Before that I had been forcing myself to consider the possibility that perhaps you were really dead. That scarf was what kept me here.”  
“Theia, I am not saying it makes me upset to see you. You know how happy I am. It is just…”

Olivia let her head fall in despondency. How was she to negotiate this? Being hurt that her friends left her, or what remained of her, whilst the one that had gotten them into this mess stayed to fend for herself? It had been such a long several months without them. They had fast became lore in her mind’s eye, daydreams of legends and adventures that kept her steady when nothing else worked. In the process, she may have made the mistake of romanticizing that which had not been true, after all. Maybe after all this time her Foxes were not the steel-clad bonds she had come to remember them as being. Maybe they were just as all rogue, Rebel Mages were talked about at Haven: scattered, disorganized, and opportunistic.

She felt Theia’s hand on her shoulder, and it provoked her to turn around and face her again. Her friend’s bittersweet face said everything: she wanted so badly to comfort her, but was also engulfed in her own mourning.

“Olivia, it was not easy. Naomi wanted to stay, but the presence of demons...it was not good for her. You know why. And Roslyn wanted to tear the head off of every person she could find to get to you, but we had no leads. The explosion eviscerated any and all trace of life. Veronica, she...she never really got over it. She was angry and bitter for weeks, until I finally had to ask everyone if they thought it best to part ways.”

Olivia’s brow furrowed. The idea of Veronica being seething and discontent with anger even after finding and securing Theia confounded her.

“You said she did something. What happened?”

Theia’s throat stiffened, and her eyes flickered away from her friend. “I’d rather not say. It’s not for my own sake, but for hers. What’s done is done.”

“Don’t give me that nonsense, Theia, tell me.”

“It is not my admonition to give. If you want it, you should find her.”

Olivia’s eyebrows raised, and she put her hand out and pushed away from her. “Oh, very well! Let me just tell my Council and my Troops and my allies that I have to take a brief sojourn to track down my wrathful rogue friend and ask her personally what she did. I am sure they will be delighted! One more mission on the docket for the Herald of Andraste!”

Theia’s head tilted. “Herald of Andraste?”

There was a moment of silence underpinned by Olivia’s growing frustration. This was not the happy reunion she desired. Where one mess resolved itself, another came undone.

“I...this anchor in my hand, people think it is bestowed by Andraste. They say I survived the explosion because of it. I am being called so many names, but that is the one name they seem to have become vexed with.”

Theia bit the side of her lip as a grin formed on her face. “Oh, that is...rich.”

“You have no idea. This anchor is what they say it is, though. It is powerful, and for some reason it has taken me as its host. They cannot seal the rifts without it, and thus I am bound to this.”

“Horseshit, you are. You can get on that horse with me and we can go find the girls, and be rid of this religious idolatry,” Theia reached and took hold of her friend’s hand, seeming to be serious in her outlandish suggestion. “Come on, you have weapons on you? We can get far by sundown.”

Olivia’s eyes lit up with a romanticism that always seemed evoked by Theia’s existence. But abandoning the Inquisition seemed fraught even by her standards. Leave everyone behind, do what Leliana joked about and run? With Theia at her side she may yet have a chance. She could leave it all to the people she knew would be qualified, and no longer face failure. She could be free again and with the people she loved.

“Theia, I…”

“Come now, let us see if the Frostbacks have anything to pit against us after what you have survived!”

“Theia, I can’t!”

The two women stood still, then, as the smiles faded. As Theia looked into Olivia’s eyes, she saw the seriousness in them. They were afraid, sure, but they were stalwart. Olivia had always needed protection but in this moment she was diverging from the person she always trusted to navigate.

“You and I both know what they can do to Mages they deem useless once they’ve fulfilled their purpose, Olivia. You do not belong with the Chantry, you belong with us.”

“The Chantry is not the leader of the Inquisition. We have diverged.”

“You cannot sever yourself as Andraste’s Herald from its doctrine. If the truth of what you have done comes to light they could throw you away just as easily. You know better! Why are you doing this to yourself?!”

“I know the truth bloody-well enough, Theia, for you to spare me of the details of my choice!”

“Then tell me wh--”

“I cannot! I cannot tell you why! I just cannot go with you!” Olivia pulled herself away sharply, turning around and walking away from her friend. An act she despised herself for daring to do after being blessed with her alive. She stopped in her path a couple yards from where Theia stood tall, rubbing her face with her hand as she struggled to keep herself composed.

“I-I need...I need you to not ask this of me,” Olivia asked sadly, “you know how much I want to run away with you. How I have always wanted to follow you, no matter the destination. But this time, Theia-Bird, this time I cannot follow you.”

Theia’s stomach sank, hearing the sorrow in her friend’s voice. Her protective nerve was aggravated as she wondered if Olivia was doing this because of her own volition, or because she felt trapped. Mages constrained by duty that could easily prove their demise was one of the reasons they left the Circle in the first place. In this moment, Theia’s nightmare was realized: not only had she failed to protect her dear friend from danger, but now she was stuck, and implicated by the way the world treated Mages with the power to fix their problems.

“I cannot walk away from you, Olivia, not again. Where you go, I will follow.”

“...No! you cannot follow me. They do not know what I have done, what we have done. I fear if they find out that it’ll endanger you and the alliance with the Mages. You and I have…” she stopped to take a breath, girding herself against the truth of what she was about to ask, “we have to part ways.”

“Over my dead body, we are!”

“Theia, do not make this harder for me than it has to be. I am protecting you, like you have so diligently done for me. It is my turn.”

“We made a pact. I broke it once, and I thought I would have to regret it forever. Please let me rectify my sins against you, against our friendship. Olivia!”

Olivia felt a single tear shed down her cheek as she closed her eyes. Everything she had wished to hear from Theia was spilling out into the open air like a flood, consuming her courage inch for inch. In that moment she wanted to turn around and run to her, hug her and allow her to ride back with her. They could forget this ever happened and start where they left off, best friends against the perils of the world. She could have a friend, someone who knew her, to remind her of who she was.

Turning back to face her, she saw that Theia, too, had eyes welling with tears. It almost took the air out of her again. She was so tragically beautiful when she cried.

“Theia,” she said, her voice cracking, “I need you to let me go.”

Theia shook her head, biting her lip to fend back the tears. “No. Never.”

“Theia-Bird,” she breathed, “let me go. I cannot bare to lose you again to evils I could have protected you from if only I had told you to stay away. Please, go and live your life, find happiness. Find Veronica.”

“I cannot let you martyr yourself when you could be saved, Olivia. You always bound us to stick together. If you are so decided then, walk away from me.”

Olivia closed her eyes and stilled herself. Those words cut to the heart of her, and she knew Theia said them with intention. For as lighthearted and clever as she was, Theia was a cold tongue to confront. She was hurt, and she had to remember that as anger brewed in her.

“Theia, you know to do so will be a betrayal of every piece of me that has survived this long,” she admitted as she wiped her face with her hand. “Please, I hope you can forgive me.”

At her wish, Theia chuckled humorlessly, letting her tears stain her face. There were many points of this matter to be upset over, but even in her distress Theia could never cross that line. She couldn’t even remember a time where she was mad at Olivia, honestly mad, without revocation.

“Gem, you know I could never think to demand an apology from you. Even when you break my heart, I will have probably deserved it.”

That was all it took for Olivia to boil over with more tears. Losing her will to stand alone she rushed over to Theia to wrap her arm around her neck for another hug. They stayed like this longer than the first time as Olivia cried low against her friend’s shoulder. She could not believe her own self, the way she was letting the person, the life she had fought tooth and nail for slip through her hands again. This was so much more agonizing than mourning a life lost. It was trying to convince herself to let people who were very much alive be for all intents and purposes gone all over again. But it was for their sake. If she could not salvage herself from the fire, she would allow them to be further touched by it.

“Theia, you have my heart. Always,” she cooed against her, eyes closed and burning with tears.

“Maker, I cannot believe I am letting you leave me,” Theia said as she kissed the side of Olivia’s head, smelling the sweetness and sweat of her.

“Find the girls, please. Tell them I love them. Tell them...please...tell--”

“I will, I promise. I will find them.”

Olivia collected herself slowly, but surely. Taking a deep breath, she bit her lip. “Thank you, Theia.”

The women conjured the strength to walk back to the clearing after what felt like hours, but in reality only took one. Any more time and Olivia would be sought after by people and the tracks of a galloping horse would be easy to follow. As they came to stand beside her horse she found herself not wanting to let go of Theia’s hand.

“I would say write to me, but as it stands I am not sure what my address would be,” Olivia managed to giggle through her tears. All of this trouble had made her almost forget she was wayward even with the Inquisition. The future was uncertain, but at least she could move forward knowing her friends were somewhere in the world doing the same.

Theia smirked and squeezed her hand. “You know how terrible I am with letters, anyway.”  
“I will write as soon as we find sanctuary somewhere, I promise. I want to know where you are and if you have found them.”

“I have a feeling I will know more of your whereabouts when I rejoin civilization. You will hear from me eventually. Just focus on staying alive and out of trouble, alright? I mean, to the best of your ability.”

Olivia shook her head. “I believe it impossible, now.”

She then took one last longing look at Theia, raising their enjoined hands and holding them to her chest. “Theia, be safe. Do not be a hero, if you can. I need you, I need all of you alive.”

“You know me, Gem. The only promise I can make is the inability to provide one.”

“Indulge me, you ass.”

Theia stifled a surprised laugh, hunching over a bit as she withdrew her hand and folded her arms. “There’s my girl. Do you need help getting on your magnificent steed so that you may leave my heart broken?”

Olivia sighed as she adjusted the reins, dusting off her boots again from their tracked snow. “If you don’t mind. I am afraid the Horsemaster likes his breeds tall.” She then readied herself, lifting her leg and slipping her foot in the stirrup. She then felt Theia come up behind her, grabbing the waistline of her breaches and clamping down on them with both hands. A few practice hops and she lurched upwards. Theia pulled her up until she could swing her leg around, and then released her from her supportive hold. She took a step back and watched as Olivia settled into her saddleseat, shimmying her weight to even the weight distribution.

“It suits you, you know,” she grinned. “You look like an Orlesian warrior Queen.”

Olivia guffawed. “You know just how to flatter my ego.”

“Perhaps you may yet find yourself in an advantageous marriage after all, your Mother will be so pleased.”

“She can sod off. I have bigger problems at hand than wondering if her dreams have new potential for fulfillment.”

Theia bowed her head in concession, a sly smile on her lips as she stood by. Once Olivia was all set, their faces locked again. Suddenly it became real, and they could no longer pretend they were as they always had been: bound together in the same adventure with nothing to do but tease each other to pass time. Olivia wondered if this all was a dream, for surely she would have never elected to leave Theia behind. This was a choice she would have rather fallen on a knife than be faced with. Yet, here she was, saddled and ready for the getaway alone. Theia saw the timidity flare in Olivia’s face, and for as much as she hated to watch her go, she could not bare to see her doubt herself.

“Oh, don’t go gushing, Olivia. This is no affair of goodbyes. I would not have it.”

“I know,” Olivia’s lips remained parted, “I just...I never thought I’d see you again, Theia. I feel like a lunatic.”

“You are far from it, and do not let anyone there even come close to thinking the same. For your sake, for my sake: act like you know what you’re doing.”

Olivia took a breath and nodded once. Theia was right, even though she would struggle to implement her advice. Theia knew what it meant to fall short of expectations and admit to weakness. If Olivia was to survive and retain some form of power over her destiny she could not allow others to see she doubted herself. Even if it was a pretend game, it had to be her priority.

“Write to me as soon as you can, as soon as you find out where we are,” Olivia made her promise again.

“You have my word.”

One last glance, and Theia stepped forward to pat Olivia on the thigh. “Now, get on, woman!” she teased before slapping her horse’s rear. Springing forward into a half-rear again, Olivia’s horse was about done with these affairs. Charging into a fast canter the horse took Olivia away from the only person she did not want to run from. As she rode she fought the urge to look back and see her friend standing there alone, knowing that the sight would make her want to turn around. There could be no more of that.

As she watched her grow smaller and smaller, Theia could feel the desire to cry growing in her chest. She was letting her go and she had no idea if this would be the last time, the last chance she’d had to save her from what awaited her. But one thing she knew was that her promise would be kept, come hell or high water. This would not be an abandonment.

\--

Riding down the trail and following the path of disheveled snow she had made earlier Olivia didn’t know what she would be like when she returned to camp. Seeing faces of people who didn’t know her, people who expected great things of her whilst worshiping her as some famous heroine. Had she been able to she would have stayed with Theia forever and known that when she was looked at, she was seen for who she was before the disaster. Leaving Theia behind was its own agony, paired with what felt like leaving her soul behind in her care. Perhaps she had been lost in the explosion, after all.

And so, the friends bound by ice and fire were forced once more to take on the world without the other at her side. Time would tell if they were to know the same battlefield again.


	19. Across the Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia returns from her scouting ride reeling from her encounter with Theia, and finds new motivation for her to keep fighting. The journey to a new stronghold begins for the Inquisition as well, and with it new deliberations for the future of its leadership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired in the dialogue between Cassandra and Olivia by a scene from "Pride and Prejudice," where Elizabeth is teasing Darcy for his seriousness as she tries to decipher a fault of his. She retorts that she had dearly hoped to laugh, but could not given his stern sincerity. It's one of my favorite love stories and I see it mirrored throughout Cass and Olivia's dynamic.

Olivia arrived back at camp a little more than an hour later. She had tried to multitask crying with scouting in order to avoid making a scene at camp, but the effort proved more difficult said than done. Knowing she was to be inundated with information, reports, and questions she quickly dismounted and handed off her horse to a kind Scout and asked him to not announce her arrival to anything and everyone he encountered. The man looked a bit torn at first, but something about the lingering desperation in her voice paired with the authority she had convinced him to follow her orders. Though, he would wonder just how she expected him to be secretive whilst leading back her horse as if that were easy to cover up.

Her mission was to find her tent as fast as possible, knowing it would only be a matter of time. Sneaking with her hood over her head around the back of the row of tents, she crouched behind the last pair and slipped in under the bottom rim of her own and into privacy. Once inside, she pulled the tent opening closed from the inside out and allowed herself the cover of relative darkness to reel from what she had done. She unhooked and tossed her hooded jacket off onto her cot and began to pace, her breathing quickly descending into panic.

She had really left Theia behind in the snow-driven wilderness. Theia, the one person she was bound to by the loyalty and honor she had managed to foster in her short life. She was out there, alive and secluded with nothing more than a bow, some arrows, and whatever else she had strapped to her body covertly. Theia, who was little more than dead to her all these months.

Her breathing grew more uncontrolled as tears started to well again, though the soreness of her eyes could not offer much more at this point. The burning of her chest and throat in the midst of the cold added to her discomfort. Everything was like a fever dream, her flight or fight response going haywire. She started to ask herself a myriad of questions: what if she left? What if she grabbed her horse, threw everything she had worth taking into a bag and ran? Theia could not be far on foot, she could track her by virtue of tracks and mana. It would be easy. Or she could bring her here! Theia would be useful, she was never one to depend on others. She could work somewhere, somehow with them. Had she denied her dearest friend shelter and security solely to protect her own reputation? This was ludicrous.

It all became too much at once. Crouching down onto her folded knees and covering her face with her hands, like reliving the avalanche at Haven. Only this time it was the consequences of her impulsive isolation tactics, and there was no way to escape it consuming her whole.

_I have to have faith in her. I need her to find the girls. I need her to be unaffected by this mess._

That voice inside her head that had kept everything and everyone at bay from the reality she faced as the Herald. But what did it mean to have no one, even those she loved and trusted, there for her? No one to remind her of what drove her, what fueled her dedication to the world as it could be. No one to tell her what to do.

“Forgive me...” she mumbled to herself as she stifled a dry cry in her throat and eyes.

“If you are to apologize, perhaps it best you first describe what you have done.”

Olivia jumped to her feet, whirling around with her hands fanned at her sides to see Sister Nightingale standing alone. She had crept into the tent like a ghost, or perhaps it was a testament to the depth of Olivia’s panic episode that she did not notice her visitor. Either way, she was caught with red eyes and a congested nose, and a chest heaving with distress.

“Leliana, I--!” she quickly wiped her face with the side of her sleeve. “I did not see you come--”

“No need for apologies, your Worship. I was merely coming to see how you were after your ride, and if you had any particular details to share from Scouting.” Leliana was surprisingly non-judgemental in this moment for coming upon the girl in such a state of disarray.

“Oh, agh,” Olivia inhaled through her nose sharply. “I have not found anything worrisome. The valley goes on for miles between the range, we should have a…a decent way forward.”

“I see,” Leliana eyed her for a moment, gathering her hands behind her back, “my Scouts have passed on the same opinion. This is good news. We may yet be able to leave this canyon in the next day or two.”  
Olivia swallowed hard, nodding a few times. “Yes, I agree.”

“Thank you, Herald. I will be speaking to the other Advisors about our next steps. Take this time to rest and focus on recovery, if you so wish. I am sure our Ambassador will no doubt take issue if you do not,” a subtle giggle in her tone at the end. “If you...need, anything, you have only to ask.”

“It was no trouble, Leliana. Thank you.”

The Spymaster smirked as she placed her hand on the tent drape, opening it slightly. “Even if it was trouble, Herald, I trust you will do as you have done, and return.” Her words were an ominous farewell, once again leaving Olivia to her own devices. In Leliana’s absence she wondered if her words were just as much a puzzle as they were candid. She would worry if her actions had been tracked, and they secretly knew of her run-in with Theia for as long as there were sleek comments like that. Just one more thing to be paranoid about.

The exchange reminded Olivia of how little room she had to reckon with her past and her attachments. Outside there would be quadruple the eyes and ears ready to possibly decipher once and for all what was troubling her in the margins of her existence. Theia’s advice echoed in her mind: look as though you know what you are doing. There had to be a reason for her choice, and she needed to create it from the ashes of her irrationality. If Theia was to keep her word and write to her, track her down once she had reassembled the girls, Olivia had to have a response. A plan. There was no point in compelling her to do all that work simply to sit on her hands.

_I cannot simply do this to survive and go along with the beast, I have to do this for Theia. For the girls. If I fail, it could ruin everything. The Mage alliance, their safety. This is how I can do something of value._

A half hour or so after the Spymaster’s visit, she arose from her tent into the open air looking stilled and collected. It was not without considerable effort, but she managed. The first step towards getting Theia and the others to be in contact with her was to get the Inquisition somewhere established, and not simply an encampment in a canyon somewhere in the Frostbacks. From there she could make something happen. But for now, she had to ground herself in what she had at her disposal: the Inquisition, the people, and the resources it bestowed on her.

Scout to the north, Solas advised -- and so they did. The next task was to actually embark.

\--

Two mornings later the Inquisition had packed up and begun the journey to the destination that only Solas could vouch for. Unsure, but without any better leads, they traveled into the great unknown hoping that something would come to fruition. Olivia had taken care to get her mind off of the events of her ride, and by the time they were hiking through the valley and past the ridge where she had met Theia, it was easier to be distracted. There was so much to do and be and for all of her inner conflict, her dedication to the parts that kept her loyal to the Inquisition remained largely unchallenged.

Electing to contribute her horse to the wagons she hiked on foot as much as possible at the front of the caravan alongside Solas, the Commander, and Leliana. The Seeker would appear ever so often to confirm her opinion on mapping or tracking, and the Ambassador to keep Leliana and Olivia good company.

Every few miles Olivia would fall back from the head of the pack and find those she doted on: the children that had been brought and rescued from Haven, who stayed in a cloaked wagon for most of the way. Their parents either Scouting, walking, or accompanying them in their vessel, with them Olivia found spiritual refuge in the middle of the wild. At one point she had allowed one of the little girls, a brown-haired daughter of a soldier with a most cheeky smile, to ride on her back whilst the others got to look at her staff weapon.

Hiking alongside the wagon with the girl on her back, arms hooked under her legs, Olivia felt like she was more human than folklore.

“My Lady,” the girl named Celeste asked over her shoulder, “where are we going? No one will say.”

Olivia chuckled. “We are going to our new home, where we can continue to work.”

“Home? Will it have a roof and everything?”

“Hopefully. I am sure our Ambassador will resolve the issue if there is not.”

Celeste huffed through her nose. “I would not be upset. Mom says home is wherever I am. I don’t need a roof.”

The Herald laughed and eyed over her shoulder. “And are you to cover all our heads when it rains, my dear?”

“Yes! I-I got a coat hood.”

“Very well. We are thankful for your service, Lady Celeste.”

The girl smiled and hid her face bashfully in Olivia’s shoulder. Feeling her cozy in, Olivia grinned and turned her eyes back onto the path in front of them. It felt good to have both arms in use again, if not aching. Healer’s potions and conditioning had done her good. Now she could enjoy moments like this as she used to.

Unsatisfied that only one of them was getting the Herald’s attention, a young boy and two girls hopped out from the wagon and began trudging through the snow alongside her. As they caught up, Olivia slowed her pace to see their faces, hopeful expressions that their boredom would be remedied by her presence.

“Lady Herald!” one said as they surrounded her. “Won’t you tell us a story again! Tell us of your adventures!”

“I have told you every story I can think of, Lisoleth,” Olivia smirked as she pressed on, matching her pace with theirs.

“Then can we see your magic?!” the other girl asked.

“I am afraid not, Felicia. I must save my energies if we run into bad guys.”

“Bad guys!? Father said they aren’t out here!”

Olivia raised a brow and looked down at her precocious walking partner. “Well, you see, the bad guys may not be out here, but they could be somewhere else. They don’t tend to like snow. It gets in their evil boots and soaks their itchy, smelly socks.”

The girls giggled, including the one using her as a steed. The boy was less convinced, looking eager to prove his intellectual clout.

“I hear the demons do not care about weather. They can’t feel cold or heat!”

Olivia scoffed, scooting Celeste up to fit more comfortably around her shoulders. “Is that so?”

“Yes. I read it in Mother’s books!”

“Well, books do say that. However, people are now wondering if they can. Ideas change all the time, dear.”

“But how can they feel one day and not feel it another day!?”

“I am not sure, Rowan. But, perhaps it it something like this!” sticking her tongue out a bit, Olivia kicked up her boot heel, tossing snow up against his legs. He gasped in offense, especially when the girls started to laugh at the stain forming in the front of his breeches. Olivia stifled a laugh. “My apologies, Rowan,” she said as she put her hand to her mouth.

“Apologies are crud! You better run!” he said as he reached his hands into the snow to form the biggest snowball he could. Olivia gasped and quickly, but carefully, slipped Celeste off her back, setting her down into the snow. It was then she saw the other girls copying him, and her heart began to race.

“Oh, Maker!” she yelled before she took off running towards the front of the group, weaving in and out of soldiers, Mages, and everyone in between. The kids proved faster on foot when they had a moving target to pursue, and their laughter and yelling made it hard to miss the action. Looking over her shoulder as she fled, Olivia had a beautifully broad smile on her face, the one she was known for. It made it a pleasure to see her in action even if it was for less than heroic matters.

Eventually she split off from the troops and went running into the barren hillside to their right, leaping and digging into the ever-deepening snow as she tried to escape. The children remained undaunted, tossing and throwing snowballs after her, some managing to hit her legs and back. As if she could not be more unlucky, she tripped in a foothold and fell onto her back, blanketing half of her body in snow. Letting out a sharp cry and laugh, her figure almost disappeared entirely in the drift. Heads turned to see if she was truly injured, including the Advisors at the front. Their worries were calmed, though, by the children who did not practice the same care: climbing and clamoring through the snow to her, they tackled her and sent her legs lurching upward as they dog-piled on her stomach and hips.

“We gotcha, we gotcha, we gotcha!” one girl screamed as she tried to tickle the woman over her armor. Olivia’s laughter rung out into the valley like a song, even as she was overwhelmed with hands and faces.

“Now, now! Don’t drown me!” she said through her laughter, her words slightly muffled by the onslaught of snow and hands.

\--

Many yards away, Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen, and Josephine looked on with relieved and endeared faces to varying degrees. The first audible reaction was a chuckle from the Spymaster.

“‘Tis livening to know some are enjoying the journey,” she remarked, glancing Josephine’s way.

The Ambassador chuckled, her eyes lighting up at the sight of such unbridled joy. “She has such a way with the children and their parents. It is almost as if she were a teacher or caregiver.”

Cullen adjusted the fit of his cape around his shoulders while he looked on, joining in the marveling of the Herald’s stamina for such games. “Mages often fulfill such duties in Circles to the betterment of the younger members. Perhaps that was her role.”

“It would not surprise me,” Josephine said as she shook her head, “though it would be nice to understand her motivations in a more effective fashion. Perhaps we may yet cultivate a platform for her reputation.”

Leliana rolled her shoulders back. “I am unsure of whether the Herald would want her reputation to be so mild. She is after all criticized for her youthfulness and meek stature.”

“Pff,” Cullen chuckled, “if anyone believes that woman to be meek, they clearly have not encountered her temper.”

Both Leliana and Josephine grinned in return for his admonition. Far from the icey attitude he had nourished for the Herald, his comment almost seemed friendly, if not a bit sore. The days in the mountains watching her recover after her sacrifice may have changed the Commander’s perspective on their lauded heroine ever-so-slightly.

“Lady Pentaghast, what have you to sa--” Josephine looked forward but was cut off guard by what she saw: the Seeker standing several yards from them, still and with arms folded. She looked on as Olivia and the children wrestled in the snow, tossing and throwing handfuls of the stuff at each other. She had a vigilant look about her, her approval neither here nor there. In fact she looked as if she could have just as easily been overseeing rounds of sparring, as she was a bunch of children at play.

“Seeker,” Leliana called out as they approached, a playfulness in her voice “Is there yet reason for you to be disapproving?”

Cassandra pursed her lips and eyed her compatriots from over her shoulder. “I am simply observing as you all are,” she replied.

Josephine smirked, exchanging a knowing stare to the Spymaster. “Indeed. Always at the ready to lend a ha--” her teasing cut off by Leliana’s gentle nudging into her shoulder, she herself stifling a smile.

“I meant,” Josephine cleared her throat, “I meant to commend you on your assured diligence, Seeker, to be sure.”

“Yes, I second that,” Leliana fortified the correction. “What is it you think now of the Herald, given recent events?”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed a bit. “While some of my assumptions of the Herald have been sincerely challenged, I remain cautious. For every step she takes into the light, she side-steps several. However, I find my singular opinion insufficient as a judgement of who she is.”

Leliana glanced towards Cullen, the one person in the group who would have an outright negative stance. “And you, Commander?”

Cullen raised a brow slightly as he walked. He looked back at where Olivia had fallen, seeing that she was covered head-and-shoulders in snow like she was anything but a war heroine. It was hard to picture her as a leader of a dynamic force, let alone a Holy one.

“While the Herald and I have taken each other to task for our respective differences, I will not deny her commitment.”

“A balanced response,” Josephine smiled, “I very much agree.”

Leliana grinned, scanning all of their faces one last time before turning her attention to Olivia as she dusted herself off of all the ammo she had taken by the children. She watched as the woman who in one room could be the most unabashedly stubborn advocate, laugh and play harmlessly. As one of the children jumped onto her from behind, wrapping her arms around Olivia’s neck, Leliana’s own soft heart buried deep beneath her armor and abilities felt communion in her goodness. Part of her inner self worried that asking such a person to rise further in the ranks to a post which had no counterpart would ruin this duality. Though that was of a supremely covert nature for now: the Maker did not mistake the intertwining paths of people, nor was it their place to judge whether he had made a mistake in deeming Olivia the person the anchor should implicate.

“Very well, we shall discuss this further once we find our destination. We may yet gain a sanctuary and a leader.”

\--

Tiring herself a bit after so much rambunctious activity Olivia watched as the children began to settle down around her, giggling and grinning as ever. At last she decided it was time to rise to her feet. Rowan having proven himself victorious also rose to the occasion of gentleman in offering her a hand out of the snow.

“Thank you, kind Ser,” she said as she stood up. “You have proven your side quite fit for battle.”

Rowan smirked smugly. “I know. I’m gonna enlist as soon as I am old enough!”

His words made Olivia’s heart ache bittersweetly. Looking at him with his fresh face, his proud smile, his vigor. She knew so many young boys like him when she was his age in Orlais, ready and aspiring for the rank of Imperial soldier. They all turned into the same audacious and arrogant personalities once they were teens, and then young men. Now she hoped, perhaps futilely, that the culture had changed since she was a child.

“Well then, this was good exercise,” she sighed, dusting off her thighs and waist. “Now, all of you get back to the wagon and dust off. I am sure your parents will scold me for allowing you to get so dirty.”

“Yes, Lady Herald!” they all said in a disjointed concert, a couple of the girls curtsying as well as they could in the tall snow, before they jogged off back towards the caravan. Olivia held her hand flat along her brow line to watch after them. Once they were safely back down the hillside and amongst the grown-ups she turned her attention to her Advisors at the helm, and trekked down to meet them. When she did she was greeted by soft grins and smiles from the people who witnessed her foolery.

“Forgive me,” she said, running her fingers through her half-soaked hair, “I was under attack by a most formidable foe.”

“We saw as much,” Leliana replied, “and you handled yourself quite poorly by the looks of it.”

“I was overwhelmed, certainly. No anchor could help my sorry soul,” she giggled, walking alongside them whilst she shook out any remaining collected snow on her person. As she did she caught Cassandra’s keen eye.

“Am I to understand that you find friendship with children agreeable despite your standards, Herald?” the Seeker inquired as their gazed locked.

Olivia chuckled under her breath as she settled into herself. “Are you eager to determine me a hypocrite, Seeker?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“What, quit now while you have me cornered?”

Olivia sped up her pace a bit so as to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with Cassandra, then, just long enough to push the envelope. Cassandra didn’t budge, walking robustly with her armor, sword, and shield at her back.

“Perhaps I enjoy children because their friendship is without agenda or stoicism.”

“It is easy to sustain bonds that are not sophisticated enough to be tested on the basis of honor and trust,” Cassandra retorted, a brow raised.

Olivia blinked, turning her eyes to the path ahead of them. Her lips parted as she held a breathy smile on her face. “Tell me, Seeker, when the last time a friend made you laugh?”

“I…” Cassandra hesitated, an air of annoyance in her voice. “I have not had the time nor the patience to keep track of such things.”

“Ah, suppose we could narrow it down? Was it within the last age, then?”

“If you are attempting to bait me, I am afraid I am in no condition to entertain jest.”

Olivia shot a glance in her direction and by chance, the Seeker returned it. When they connected, the Herald offered a soft smile, the dimple on her cheek showing itself. She could see a hint of softening in Cassandra’s face, but not enough to dare hope her endearing humor was working its magic.

“‘Tis a pity, I dearly hoped to laugh.”

What Olivia didn’t know was that underneath her taciturn exterior Cassandra was struggling with the disruption that she had created within her logic. The Council’s considering of naming her Inquisitor weighed heavily on the Seeker’s mind and she saw no resolution in sight for her doubt. She did not yet know enough about her to feel fully confident in such a decision even though the Herald’s actions spoke louder than her playful words as to her grit and devotion. If someone was as good as they seemed reason would say they’d have nothing to hide. Olivia seemed to prove that assumption obsolete, but was that enough to elevate her?


	20. A Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold is finally found by the Inquisition forces after weeks of trekking the mountainous terrain of the Frostbacks. The Council Advisors take it as an opportunity to usher a new chapter for the cause and name a leader once and for all, but things do not go as smoothly as they hoped.

She was ten years old when her Mother called her into her personal parlor with Governess in toe. It was to be an important lesson, or so she was told at Breakfast: An introduction to one of the integral parts of being an Orlesian woman. Nevermind that she wasn’t yet old enough to bleed, she would learn now, ahead of time; this lesson was to define the rest of her life after all. Better start young so as to ensure it was impressed without question.

Walking into her Mother’s personal parlor which was more decorated than any other wing in their home due to her tastes, she noticed the long table cleared of all its decorations in favor of objects covered under a linen shroud. She wondered what her Mother had gotten her: perhaps a gift that wasn’t meant to pin her up like a doll for once. The room was bright and metallic with all its embellishments and moldings on the walls and furnishings and it made her feel so plain. Perhaps Mother had gotten her something to make her match the surrounding opulence.

“Come now, girl, we must begin,” her Governess said with a guiding hand on her shoulder. Lady Mirella was always so timely and reactive to Lady Sinclair’s wishes. No wonder she had been the longest-lasting Governess she had ever employed, going on a year and a half. Olivia remained dutifully silent as she was ushered to stand in front of the table. The shroud was opaquely blue with three rows of bumps underneath it, each roughly the size of a dish plate. Her head of blonde curls bounced as she gazed up at her Mother, who stood regally on the other side hands out as if she were narrating a story.

“My child, today we begin your glorious process, one which every woman in our family has come to dominate, as you will in time,” she then wistfully reached a hand and took hold of the sheet. She then yanked it off the table like she were attempting a magic trick, but there were no birds or butterflies awaiting their release. Instead there was an assemblage of nine Orlesian masks of varying styles: some silver and polished like her Father’s shield, others densely feathered in greens and golds. They were nothing new to Olivia, a daughter of mid-ranking nobility who had known more adult faces masked than she did otherwise. But for the majority of her childhood up until that point she had been spared from the ritual. Her tenth year of life was a benchmark for the rite.

“Are they not stunning, Olivia?” her Governess cooed over her shoulder. She sounded like they were looking at paintings in a Hall somewhere, not a bunch of decorated face covers. Olivia understood well enough what was expected of her, though: grinning politely, she curtsied to her Mother.

“Thank you, my Lady, they are very beautiful.”

Her Mother laughed melodiously, sauntering around the edge of the table with her hands sprawled out at her sides. Her gown was fatiguing just to look at: its cumbersome draping and bright colors were overwhelming to a petite girl’s stature. It was no mystery that Lady Sinclair and her daughter appreciated very little physical contact under the constraints of fashion.

“You are very welcome, my child. Now, what is the first rule of Ladylike conduct in Orlais?”

Olivia nodded once. “Orlesian Ladies do not love, they persuade.”  
“And the second?”

“That they do not concede, they counter.”

“Third.”

“That they do not mistake, they master.”  
“Excellent. Now, choose one and let us see how it will fit you.”

Lady Mirella was quick to do the honors for her; Olivia was never to take the liberty to choose for herself even when ceremoniously invited. She knew this, which meant she merely stood still in waiting. Lady Mirella had questionable taste but she picked one of the more minimalist-looking masks: a simple gold one with floral carvings along the rim. Olivia was then brought to the standalone mirror her Mother had stationed in the corner. As she was posed in front of it she took one last look at her bare face and her distant stare. Her hazel eyes that had yet to show their magic, and were innocently raw in their expression.

Then, Lady Mirella reached her hands around placed the mask over her head and nose. It was a bit overwhelming in size, but she could grow into it. Her hands went to work fastening the ribbon into her hair. The metal was cold and inflexible -- how did women wear these all day without their faces growing weird? What did they look like under such a tight fit?

“Mother?” Olivia asked as she felt the knot be further tightened.

“Mm, yes, my child?” Her mother said as she sipped her wine from her ever-present chalice. It was no later than noon, but for her it was never too early for the first drink of the day.

“How will people know who I am? I cannot see any part of my face…”

“Hah! Olivia, the Great Game has no use for sincerity. You must learn to detach from all intimacies, they are only liabilities. Who you are is a collection of assets, tools, and skills. If you perform well enough, they will know you by your prowess and not your mannerisms.”

Olivia blinked a few times. These concepts were not exactly accessible in nature for a child, but Orlesian noble children were not excused on account of youthful ignorance. It was pill after pill that demanded to be swallowed.

“I do not...under--”

“Shh, Olivia, you will make your mask crooked,” Lady Mirella whispered as she patted her charge on her dainty head. She then left her side in favor of admiring the remaining masks, and perhaps brown-nosing the Lady of the House some more. That left little Olivia in the mirror to stare back at her concealed face. A face that now looked like dozens she had seen before in Soirees and garden parties. Her eyes seemed hollow, made of glass now and not belonging to a vivacious young girl.

Do not talk, you will make your mask crooked. Do not eat certain foods, it may stain your mask. Do not speak with strong emotion, or the mask is proved useless. Do not run, play, tumble, skip, or you may break the mask. The mask, the mask, the mask. The Game, the Game, the Game. From that day on she was allowed incrementally less time to simply be a child, until the time came when she did finally bleed onto her bed linens and night dress. At least by that time, she grew to have something to entertain herself with when her Mother finally left her alone: soft flames of fire that started to form on the palms of her hands, ones which responded to her flux of emotions. The Orlesian way of childrearing had many egregious sins, but for a young Mage eager to hide their truth, being taught to suppress and conceal proved ironically useful...for a time.

\--

 _The place you seek is just beyond that mountain side,_ Solas had said as the hiked ahead of the group, his staff in hand. Little did she know that when they would arrive at that height they would find Skyhold, of all things, awaiting their eyes. It had been two weeks of trekking through the Frostbacks: two weeks of shallowly set up overnight camps, scouting as they went, with little more than the promise of guidance on the Apostate’s part. Olivia trusted him as the person who had been there from the beginning to steward her growth as a Mage and he did not fail her thus far. When she looked upon the fortress gates and columns she felt vindicated in that conviction.

The first souls to enter the grounds were the children, who had escaped the wagons and bolted for the gates like a band of stampeding animals eager to finally find refuge. Then the advisors followed, once the Scouts sent ahead were able to configure a way to open the gates. Once everyone had hauled into the front lower courtyard people could take a cautious sigh of relief: no more traveling, no more wayward hopefulness slipping through fingers.

Olivia spent most of the first day overseeing unloading with the Commander and Seeker. The structures were old and worn, with scattered plywood and materials in almost every sheltered space. With soldiers collecting the mess enough for boxes and baskets of materials to replace them Olivia spent hours carrying up and down stairs, across the grounds, and exploring the different buildings.

“Bless you, my Lady,” a woman said as she was hauling supplies alongside her. “Your providence has led us here.”

“It was our collective efforts that got us here, but I appreciate your kindness,” Olivia replied before nudging a door open with her hip. She had been getting comments like that all day, since the moment they saw the fortress on the horizon for the first time. Every time she said something similar: praising the group effort, denying her own singular part. She spoke from a sincere place believing herself no more special in the efforts to find this place as any other. Solas was the one who knew of it, and without the Advisors’ maps or Leliana’s crew, they would have kept wandering hoping something would turn up. This was anything but an individual hero’s work. Unfortunately that did not seem to stop anyone from believing her to be endowed with exceptional leadership.

\--

Once the bulk of the initial unload was done the Advisors convened in the lower yard for a conversation. Olivia had been off and making herself as helpful as she could with the Inquisition personnel -- and maybe a part of it had been to avoid their attention. Something had shifted in the air since the found the fortress. She couldn’t quite place her finger on it, but when she started seeing Josephine smile in her direction as if there was a surprise waiting on the other side of the gates, Olivia only felt intensified dread.

Helping people into what looked like the Smith’s shop, Olivia’s eye was caught by a door across the grounds. It seemed connected to a hall, but what lay on the other side of it she could not ascertain. It made her wonder what it was like inside of the great Hall and if there was anything else beyond it except the tall facade of stone.

Freeing her hands of more supplies she turned and contemplated whether she would go and explore. Before she could walk, though her name was called. Or, rather, one of its euphemisms.

“Lady Herald!” a Mage called with hands cupped around his mouth. “The Advisors are looking for you!”

Olivia looked over her shoulder and sighed. Perhaps they had already found some business to attend to without table or Council room.

“Thank you for telling me!” she called back, dusting off her thighs as she scanned the perimeter, looking for any one of their familiar faces but seeing no one. Perhaps they had moved onto the lower courtyard. She wasted no more time walking over to the top of the stone stairwell, but as she was about to descend she was met by a most thoughtful looking Seeker.

“Ah, Herald. We have been searching for you,” Cassandra greeted.

Olivia’s brow raised as she stopped herself, turning to face her head on. “So I have heard. Has something happened?”

“Not at all. We have matters to attend to, of course, but that hardly changes.”

The women then turned to look out from the stairs at the wagons continuing to trickle in from the journey. People hugging, laughing for the first time in days with genuine bliss. For once people would be able to sleep with roofs over their heads, albeit holed and possibly a little decayed. Even with all of her torn emotions Olivia felt content knowing the people would feel gratified in their struggle.

“The will arrive day by day. With word spreading, I suspect Skyhold will become a pilgrimage,” Cassandra observed.

“We have work to do, then, do we not?”

“Yes, we do.”

Olivia sighed quickly and turned around along with her as they began walking to the second flight of stairs around the corner.

“I am sure you have heard this all day, but, it is your decisions that have gotten us here.”

“I would sooner call them misadventures spurned by an unqualified need to be endangered, but, sure.”

Cassandra eyed her, hands gathering behind her back. “Regardless, if word has spread of our place here, it will have spread to the Elder One.” She halted in her step again, compelling Olivia to do so as well. “We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight, but this is not the war we anticipated.”

Olivia tucked some of her hair behind her ear, its messy strands slipping from its makeshift bun she had tied with a ribbon in order to have it out of her face for moving in. Along her cheek was a stain of dirt and dust she had not wiped off. She did not respond, but appeared rather meditative. Sometimes she lost track of the fact that this was, in fact, a war. It was hard to remember that the Mage Rebellion was just that -- a rebellion. On the ground adversities felt disconnected all-too-easily from lofty words like those.

Cassandra continued, “But at least now we know what allowed you to stand against Corypheus, what drew him to you.”  
At her words Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, like all the rifts and their demons, and the breach. It’s my hand.”

Cassandra pursed her lips, not satisfied. “The anchor has power, but it is not why you are still standing.”

“I can agree with that, considering everything it has attracted has wished me dead.”

“Herald, it was your decisions that led us to seal the sky. It was your determination that enabled us to survive Haven.” The Seeker walked away, then, continuing on her path towards the stairs. Olivia lagged behind, but followed with reluctance. She had so little patience left for being exalted on this day, and now it seemed Cassandra of all people was to deliver it in spades. As they marched slowly up the stairs, she continued speaking.

“You are the Elder One’s rival because of what you did, and we know that. All of us.”

Olivia became confused as they made their way to the top of the stairs, seeing Leliana standing at the ready with a sword held between her hands. She felt her stomach drop at the sight of it -- such swords were not simply given out of meager generosity. The ones her Father had mounted on his wall, the ones he polished regularly. They were honors, signifiers of duty and leadership.

She felt her breath go still as she stopped just beyond the last stair step.

“The Inquisition requires a leader -- the one who has already been leading it,” Cassandra said at last, coming to stand between the two women.

Olivia felt stunned and ready to run again, the first time she had felt it since encountering Theia in the woods weeks ago. Just when she had soothed herself into her place and her expectations this now disrupted all confidence she had managed to fortify. Her, the Inquisitor? Women like her did not assume such roles. Mages like her did not bother to daydream of such things. Yet, here she was, sword being held for the taking along with its title. Her eyes widened, her mouth resembling the shape of a soft “O.”

“Seeker, Leliana, I am not sure what you are supposing, b-but--” it was then she saw out of the corner of her eye the gathering crowd on the yard below. Their eyes as hopeful and resilient as she had known them on the journey to Skyhold, not all upon her. She immediately became uncomfortable beyond measure.

From behind, she heard Cassandra’s voice once more. “That leader is you.”

“But...but a Mage? Me? I am nothing like the Prophet they pray to. I am not…” stuttered, turning away from the crowd.

“I would be terrified to bestow this power onto anyone. However, you are not simply a Mage. You are a person who has given considerably to this cause, and for that, the Maker has shown us the truth.”

“Seeker, I cannot explain fully why this is unwise, but I need you to trust me what I say that I am not who you want.”

Cassandra and Leliana exchanged glances as the Spymaster rose a bit taller in her stature. The fear in Olivia’s eyes was growing, as was the golden coloration of them. This was not going according to plan, but the Herald was never known for predictability in her short tenure. They watched as Olivia took one last look at the throng of people, her chest livening in its breathing pace.

“I-I can’t do this. Forgive me,” she said stepping back, head shaking vehemently. That was the last thing she uttered before turning and bolting down the stairs from whence they came. Cassandra moved to say something, but Leliana simply grabbed her arm.

“Cassandra, don’t,” she warned calmly, taking hold of the sword grip.

“But, she cannot simply--”  
“She can, and for all of our sakes, we must not coerce her beyond what she feels capable of.”

The Seeker suddenly felt unfortunately vindicated in her estimations of Olivia’s immaturity. She may have proven brave, talented, and intelligent, but this was not going to work if all she did was run from the nature of who she was. She was no longer simply an agent, or a volunteer for the cause. She had become the figurehead for all who wanted someone worthy of fighting for.

But as Olivia ran, finding the door that had piqued her curiosity before, all she wanted to do was be on the other side of it. Shoving it open the door creaked loudly, its heaviness putting up a fight as she slid her way through it. She let out a panicked whimper as she pushed it shut behind her, and found herself in a dark corridor with nothing in sight but straw and dirt scattered on the floor. She held her palm out and lit a ball of flame for which to see, and noticed the dark wood stain of another door across the hall.

Running until she came to it, her hand gripped on the knob and she pushed again, not caring as to what direction the door was meant to go in. It provided more resistance as if it were caught on something. Finding no luck she stepped back and growled at it, her palmed flame surging with frustration. Its insurgence gave her the idea that perhaps she would be that Mage who would use their abilities to solve menial problems after all. Holding her arms out, she summoned power that lit up her hands and lower arms. At once, the door became illuminated with green and blue luminescence, and she remembered Solas’s teachings that day they practiced levitation of objects.

The door did not simply move, it split into thirds of rotten wood, breaking down at her wrathful insistence. Once they were broken she waved her hands to the left, tossing them half-assed to the ground beside her. She let out a gasp, feeling the expenditure of mana she was not used to. As she stood there, breathing heavily and eyes reddening, part of her felt amazed with herself. Her rapture only heightened when she saw what lay behind the doorway -- she had found the fortress gardens.

Stepping through onto the stone floor of the open-air hallway she took in the seen of overgrown vines, weeds, and leaves stretching onto every surface she could see. The dirt pathways left untidied, pots broken and empty. These were ruins as much as an unoccupied fortress, to her.

She walked down onto the dirt and to what looked like a well at the center of it all, slouching and worn from the seasons. Here she could almost pretend that everyone else was a world away, and she had found her own inner sanctuary. She couldn’t hear the goings-on, the voices, the footsteps. Just the subtle wind in the branches and birds flying overhead. Arriving at the side of the well her natural intrigue led her to peer over into its depths. There was water, slightly flooded by the looks of it. The reflection it showed her was still and glassy, and she did not turn away. Rather, something in her compelled her to stare, seeing the distress in her eyes and her face.

_Mother, I do not under--_

_Hush, Olivia, or you’ll make your mask crooked!_

These voices did not die along with the presence of the people. They paced, ebbed and flowed with her soul, waiting for a chance to reveal themselves and the scars they lived within. The reflection in the water showed a different Olivia than all of her Mother’s mirrors broadcasted all those years ago. She was no longer ten-years-old, or even thirteen-years-old. Ten winters since she last saw her home at the age of sixteen equalled the image of a twenty-six-year-old woman still spurned by the lessons taught to her as a child.

They could not name a woman Inquisitor who filled the spaces of her life like a ghost, liminal and reactive to the more forceful, capable personalities around her. The woman who did deplorable things, sins against the valued lives of men, as if such crimes could be justified by the eyes of the institutions responsible for her oppression. Olivia did not age, she exchanged moods and perspectives, feeding off of her friends for a sense of stability. Her reflection had become a barren canvas. This would only be another of those mask. It would burn her face, her eyes, her identity beyond salvation.

Finally she found the strength to step away from the well, her breath quickening again as she put her hand to her mouth. Maybe this would be it, the great breakdown that had been stalking her all these years.

“Did your friend in the mountains ever get to hear your apology?”

Olivia let out a sharp exhale as she whirled around to the voice that called from behind her. There she stood, once again proving a discrete visitor: Sister Leliana, hands at her back and without a sword this time. As Olivia stared back at her, she knew this time her lapse in decorum would not be overlooked. She may not have been able to securely say who she was in that moment, but she knew what she was: caught.


	21. A Consensus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Olivia having rebuked her enlistment as Inquisitor, and Leliana knowing more than she believed she did (of course), the truth finally comes to light for the Herald and her allies.

It was there, sitting on a wonky stone bench not to far from the well, that Olivia forced herself to testify to her truth. She began with the wake of the Circles disbanding, and carried on all the way to the rumored Black Dove, the renegade Mage harlot that had come to take on a life of her own via word of mouth -- the one Vivienne had taken care to warn her about. Not surprisingly, Leliana was aware of the fleeting gossip, though she had more pressing concerns than a fabled Mage siren roaming Fereldan. When the dots were connected, though, she was hardly dismayed.

“So this is what you have been frightful about this entire time?” she asked with a stifled chuckle under her breath, “that you caused a stir among the rogue Templars in Ferelden?”

“I never said I was level-headed, Leliana. After what I have been through I have reason to be scared of what the truth could mean for my life.”

“That, I comprehend quite well. What confounds me, Herald, is that you did not take into consideration the fraught nature of your allies’ intentions alongside your own. You are not the only one here who could just as easily be implicated for treason, idleness, or criminality.”

Olivia clenched her hands on the edge of the stone bench seat, her knuckles whitened from the tension. She hunched over a bit more in her posture, biting her lip. “The Rebellion made everything deadly, Leliana. The Temple was the first time I had voluntarily placed myself in the direct path of the Chantry and the Templars in months. I was still a rogue in mind and body. I...I feel I still am, by that display I showed everyone.”

Leliana adjusted her weight on her seat and rest an elbow on the back of the bench. Olivia was young and up until the Circle’s disbandment, relatively separated from the world. It must have been terrifying to be thrown into the pit of self-sufficiency at the risk of slaughter.

“You did so for a friend, Herald. Surely you must see the bravery in that choice.”

“Yes, and look what I did with my gamble. My choices are as insensible as the notion of me being the leader of a Holy army is.” Olivia anchored her elbows atop her knees, placing her face in her hands. She let out a aggravated exhale muffled by her palms. “The Commander barely heeds my voice as it is. If it becomes common knowledge what I did, how I survived...they will not cheer for me as they have done so.”

“In that, you are wrong, Herald.”

Olivia shot a glance in the Spymaster’s direction at the sharpness in her response. Leliana merely stared back, fearless and assured.

“You have assembled the Mages in an alliance that was once understood as impossible. You defied expectation and respect of the Chantry and Templar Order in order to do so, and yet here you are, alienating yourself from the stronghold of Magi you have assembled. Is it truly a matter of isolation, or is it the presence of certain people you feel abandoned by?”

It was as though an arrow had struck through her gut. Olivia sat back against the wall sadness and anxiety brewed together in her chest. She had come to an impasse once again. How Leliana learned to cut to the heart of a matter with so little time spent contemplating it was beyond her, but at least she knew the person responsible for intelligence was beyond reproach for her talents.

“Will the Inquisition survive if its leader is believed a radical Mage who has sold her body as a bait for assassination, costing the lives of too many Templars and their mercenaries for her to remember each one?” she asked. “Even if she is Orlesian, even if she proves herself to be more than what haunts her?”

Leliana was pensive as she listened. This was not the first time she had come face-to-face with matters of lethal reputation intermingling with political clout.

“You were raised an Orlesian daughter, Your Worship. You saw the capabilities bestowed upon women for both artifice and cunning. Would that not befit a reputation such as your own?”

“A noble woman, yes. A Mage rebel, I am not sure. It has been a decade since I was anywhere near the Great Game, and even then I was but a child. I am as much a stranger to it as any.”

“Then, perhaps, you have a chance at rebirth by your own determination.”

The air stilled around them, then, and Olivia could feel a pang of earnest optimism in her heart flutter where there had been nothing but despair. Leliana made sense -- such was her nature -- and her experience with the Imperial Court made her feel trustworthy. If anyone could guide a reluctant re-entry of a woman into her home nation of vipers, it could be her and the Ambassador. With them at her side she could have a chance.

“Are you sure this must be me? I understand the anchor’s importance. I do. But, does that qualify me alone?”

“Of course not.”

“...Then?”

“The Maker does not impart challenges onto those who have already learned how to overcome them. You must consider the chance that this calling is what is needed for you to realize your worth.”

“So, what, I answer the call and hope for the best? Am I supposed to simply comply with every push and pull no matter how it disadvantages me?”

Leliana pursed her lips softly and looked out at the garden scape in front of them. Her face looked less hard-to-read than before, a slight sadness in her eyes. It was not a hopeless expression, but one of sentimentality in an otherwise decisive demeanor.

“Herald, the choice is yours to decide what you will. However, you must do so with the knowledge that everything you have endured has brought you to this point. Should you break away now, where that momentum shifts is unknown. Look at it this way: you had all the reason in the world to escape with your friend. I would not have been surprised to see you try to regain control in the face of so much uncertainty. Something called you to remain with us, no? That, I believe, is the Maker’s will for you and your purpose.”

Olivia had never been one for Andrastian posturing, but within Leliana’s comforting she found it less grading on her nerves. It was something about how she talked and the way she invoked faith that wasn’t imposing or discouraging. The Circle administered religion like a bitter medicine for Mages seen as inherently divergent from doctrine. For daring to exist, they were indoctrinated into their own inferiority and expected to clamor in penance. Leliana was one of the first people she had come across that aligned the Maker’s will with her upliftment.

She took one last breath, collecting her scattered emotions and motivations for the time being. Her breakdown would have to remain at bay for another time.

“I wish to have all our allies gathered to the garden as soon as possible,” she requested, rising to her feet. “No exceptions.”

\--

Everyone stood in a rough semi-circle in the gardens, mumbling and staring exchanged openly amongst their misfit ranks. Olivia kept herself in a corner of the hall, watching as they all trickled in. Vivienne and Dorian exchanging clever words, Bull and his Chargers in toe, the Commander standing quietly and sort of lonesome beside the Ambassador, who seemed eager to be reunited with Leliana in order to understand what was going on.

Once the Spymaster did return, the last through the door, she glanced towards Olivia’s direction and offered a solemn nod. She then came down the steps and made her way through the shoulders and heads of all who had come to see what the Herald had to say. As soon as she took her place between Cassandra and Josephine, Olivia knew it was time. She put her hands behind her back and walked out from her hiding place and down the stairs without much pomp, though her appearance caused a halt in the conversations.

Everyone turned to face her as she stopped just a few steps from the stairs. Her heart was racing and her palms were cold and clammy, but she did not waver. Taking a shallow breath, she stilled her nerves.

“I am sure you all heard of what happened earlier, if you did not see it with your own eyes,” she began, scanning the crowd of faces. “I have asked you all here for a matter of great importance to me. It is time that…” she paused, making eye contact with Vivienne, who seemed to understand all of this before it had even started. Her face was smug but not hostile, an ‘it’s about time’ sort of look.

“...It is time that I be honest with you all if I am to take this role on. I will not put myself into a circumstance where I am unfit to lead you. Inquisitor or not, I have a responsibility to every single one of your lives.”

Dorian folded his arms. “How kind of you to divert from your heritage with regards to life expenditure.”

From a couple yards away Varric shrugged. “Would you let her finish?”

“Varric, it is no worry,” Olivia smirked softly, “Dorian is only staving off his endearment by my Southern charm.” The two mages glanced each other’s way, a soft grin translating everything she could not say. You are an ass, but thank you for reminding me to take a breath.

“Ay, what’s the bottom of it, then?” Sera asked as she shifted her weight onto one hip, looking visibly skeptical. Olivia gazed back at her, her eyes fluttering open and closed as she recollected her thoughts.

“The bottom of it is, Sera, that my life before the Conclave must no longer be a mystery. Some of you may think you know, and perhaps you have successfully deciphered it. However, I wish to reclaim the narrative once and for all. There is a fable that has caught wind across the two Kingdoms, of a Rebel Mage called the Black Dove. She was reported to have traveled wayward across Fereldan wreaking havoc on Templars, mercenaries, and soldiers who dared antagonize Mages. I have no inkling as to how prolific this story has become outside of who informed me of its existence, and I am certain some of the gossip is embellished. But for posterity, I feel it best once and for all to say the Black Dove is real, and she is me.”

Everyone started to glance in either direction of where they stood, locking eyes with each other whilst Olivia stood tall and frozen in place. Her mind quieted as she watched them, wondering what that sort of reaction could mean: no one was giving off a distinct face of horror or disapproval just yet.

“Did you do it, then?” Sera pushed further.

“I killed Templars and their contracted mercenaries, yes. They were ordered and paid to hunt me and my friends, as well as any Mage they could find out in the open.”

The Iron Bull put a hand on his hips, huffing a bit. “So, you took down guys who wanted to kill you first. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is,” Cullen oh-so-pointedly interjected, “is that she has Templar blood on her hands from before the Conclave and Corypheus’s rise.”

“We do not know that for sure. The Conclave could have been months, perhaps years in the making,” Leliana retorted, her shoulders shifting towards his direction. “The Templars could have just as easily conspired as Mages were suspected of doing.”

“And how do you expect everyone to believe that, let alone our troops, when they know our Inquisitor seems to have no issue slaying them should they be deemed dangerous?”

Olivia grit her teeth, a crack sounding off from her jaw. “I am not a thoughtless serial killer, Commander. My actions were in defense of my own life or the lives of others. I am not going to apologize for what I did, and I want to make that perfectly clear from this point onward.”

The tension grew in the air in the face of her confidence. Allegiance or no allegiance she was not about to make herself an apologia for Mage respectability. The alliance that she had worked for and the security it brought to her fellow Mages would not even be enough to compel her to yield.

“The Black Dove was accused of using her...feminine nature to secure her victims, if I remember correctly,” the Ambassador inquired. “Is that also truth?”

Olivia tilted her head. “Yes, most often. When we were destitute, I would disguise myself in whatever tavern or brothel we were closest to. The connection between my killing and my solicitation were not intentional -- Templars and their lackeys just so happen to enjoy employed sexual gratification.”

“So you were a...a…” Blackwall struggled, clearly uncomfortable with suggesting any disrespect to someone he still viewed as a lady.

“I was a harlot, yes.” Without consciously seeking it out, Olivia’s eyes found Cassandra’s. It was then her face of unreadable stoicism became evident. Without rhyme or reason Olivia’s stomach churned with dread. The person who’s principles and irrevocable judgement she had dodged this entire time was now enabled to think whatever she wished to about the woman she knew as the Herald. Their eyes locked for a moment, before another voice chimed in.

“Well, I am quite glad we were able to settle this, then. Now, are we to get on with the day, or is this your way of toasting the inaugural supper in the Inquisition’s new stronghold?” Dorian again, quickly digesting the matter.

“Is that all anyone wishes to say?” Olivia rejoined, turning her head. For a moment there was silence and an aura of intrepidation amongst the allies. Evidently no one had been prepared for such an admonition after all they had seen and experienced.

“Very well. I will be open to respectful discussion should you wish it. That brings me to the basis for this meeting. Does knowing the truth about my background change anyone’s opinions on whether it would be best that I be named Inquisitor? This matter will not be up for debate beyond this point.”

Once again, silence whilst everyone deliberated in their own minds. She did not scare easy, staring into people’s eyes every few seconds to drive her point home.

“Your Worship, with all due respect,” Iron Bull spoke again, “I couldn’t give less of a shit about who you ended up bedding and blading in the same night. Where I come from, that’s considered smalltalk.” His tone was brusque, but not without consideration. The slight humor in his voice made her grin.

“I’m with Bull. No one here is a pure Penny, and you got the people happy. That’s what matters,” Sera agreed.

Olivia was encouraged in that moment, and she grinned the more they showed their support. Her eyes drifted to where Varric, Vivienne, and Dorian stood, and once more she was greeted with friendlier faces.

“Firefly, trust me when I say no person worth a damn has no story. You can’t shake me that easy,” Varric said as he folded his arms.

“Indeed, what would be a Holy War without some sullied skirts?” Dorian added.

Eventually, everyone had given their blessing -- whether by virtue of commentary, or calm nod -- for Olivia to take the helm. The meeting ended with a coalescence and not derision. Olivia stood by as everyone began to wander out from the garden and back onto the main grounds. Certain people, like Bull or Dorian, took care to bid their farewell for now to Herald. Others would send glances of reassurance her way before disappearing. At the end of the line, it was Olivia and her Council members, the people who had rallied around her side from the get-go, but who’s loyalties had surely been tested.

Circled around, they reckoned with the new reality.

“We have much to do if we are to turn the tide in our favor,” Ambassador Montilyet observed as she placed a hand on her hip.

“We also have an army to reinforce, the one that will protect us if we are attacked again,” Cullen muttered, unenthused with the heavy discussion of reputation. Olivia’s confession had done enough to unnerve his personal opinions, but there remained the duty he had as Commander and Council member to a cause he still believed in.

“The Herald’s venture into the future indicated one important detail, and that is the Empress’s life is in danger. We must procure a plan of action if we are to counteract Corypheus’s designs on the world and its fall into chaos,” Leliana added.

Olivia stared at the ground, her arms cradled against her chest as she attempted to synthesize the information pouring from her Advisors en masse. Leliana was right again: the Empire’s calamity should the Empress be assassinated was an integral part to the fall of all Thedas. Such a problem would need a multi-pronged approach, one which would have to compel an Empire that was war-weary into action.

“We will convene tonight and discuss options, but for now we need to embed ourselves into this fortress and have our lines of communication established with our outposts and allies abroad,” Olivia recommended.

“Indeed. I will oversee it personally,” Leliana replied. She glanced at Josephine for any additional reinforcement, which of course she was happy to provide.

“And I will make arrangements that will bolster our contacts further. I have ideas in mind of how we may yet intercept any existing designs on the Empress’s life.”

“Splendid. We can discuss details later. For now, I have a favor to ask you both, Leliana and Cassandra.”

The two women turned their heads to face the Herald, who in return offered a humble smile. “I wish to rectify the blunder I made earlier today. If it is at all possible, and you are still willing, I would…” she tapered off in her sentence. The sting of what she did the first time around was still fresh.

“Of course, Herald. Or should I say, Inquisitor,” Leliana grinned. “Meet me out on the stairs in a few minutes.”

Olivia watched as the Spymaster nodded and withdrew, Josephine following behind with a renewed hopefulness. It was good news that Olivia would not back down after all. That left her in the company of a frowning Commander and a Seeker who had stayed quiet throughout their discussion. A rare sight, indeed.

“Commander, if there is anything you need of me,” she struggled to swallow her pride, “you have only to ask.”

“Very good, because it seems I will. Take care, Your Worship. We shall see what the Maker has in store,” he managed to reply with order, bowing his head a bit. “For now, we have an Inquisition to rally. I will see you outside.” It was his turn to leave, then, and he did so as if relief was awaiting him on the other side. Relief, or perhaps more problems, but at least they stood the chance of distracting him from the fact that their Inquisitor was who she was.

That left Olivia alone with the woman who had tried to beckon her forth into her new role only to be briskly refused. Standing side by side and in the quiet, Olivia couldn’t tell whether she should be afraid or comforted. The lines between the emotions Cassandra inspired had become hazier.

“Well,” Olivia gulped softly, turning to face her, “there you have it.”

“There I have what, exactly?” Cassandra quipped, gathering her arms behind her back.

“You know...the, the truth. The source of my reckless nature you despise so much.”

Cassandra smirked humorlessly, digging her heel in the dirt as she shifted her shoulders a bit further in Olivia’s direction. “Herald I have no doubt your experiences are the inspiration for various facets of your personality. However I lack the understanding of why it is you felt the need to be so evasive.”

“Seeker, I…” Olivia shrugged despondently, “I remember our discussions at Haven, of the order you come from. Would it not follow, given all that I have done, that Seekers would have been obligated to detest me?”

“If you were believed an Apostate, yes. The Rebellion made things more complicated for the Seekers. We were, if you recall, meant to survey the Templar Order for risks of corruption and abuse of power.”

Olivia took a step back and swallowed hard. She couldn’t understand why this was such an awkward conversation for her or why she suddenly cared so much about Cassandra’s point of view. All she could do now was feel an inescapable relief.

“Well, shit.” She sighed.

“Herald,” Cassandra beckoned as she started to walk for the door, Olivia following alongside though more timid in pace. “I will admit your confession was difficult to hear. However, now is not the time for past differences to take from unity that is necessary for the good of all. The Inquisition is not without its perils, but without a leader it is more vulnerable to them.”

As they walked up the steps to the garden hall Olivia was once again faced with the broken wood pile she left in her wake. Her eyes flickered towards it, reminding herself of the emotional ride she had been on the last several hours. As they made their way into the corridor and through to the upper courtyard grounds, she knew it would not be the last.

“And you are still willing to go through with this?” Olivia asked, glancing at her from the side. Her face was once again hard to read, but not completely dismissive.

“Of course,” Cassandra replied dutifully, “your actions are not erased by this.”

“You talk as if it is that easy and concrete.”

“I talk from a place of sincerity, one which I hope you will feel more comfortable in practicing from this point onward.”

Making it to the base of the stone stairs, Olivia halted for one last breath to prepare herself. She could feel in the air the sensation of no return. If she did this, her life would irrevocably transform, and she could not avoid it. Leliana's words lingered in her mind: a chance to defy the physics of her life and take back the agency she had lost. But then, how, and at what cost? She stared into space, her eyes becoming overwhelmed with the nerves she thought satiated. But then, as if a rescue from the brink of oblivion, she felt a hand rest on her shoulder. Blinking fast and tilting her head, it was the Seeker’s black-gloved hand steadying her. Her face and eyes slightly softened, like the expression she had in the mountain camp that night beside her cot.

“Are you ready?” she asked simply.

Olivia inhaled deep, for once not shaking off an extension of amicable attention from her. She rolled her lips and looked up at the top of the stairs.

“Ready as I will ever be.”


	22. The Sun Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The newly-promoted Inquisitor settles in a bit more at Skyhold. Certain "fashion" choices must be made, and she begins to understand the fine line her role must navigate in order to succeed. A boiled over fight between the Seeker and Varric prompt her to practice mediating between hot tempers.

Waking up in a proper bedchamber for the first time in a decade was a feeling Olivia would not soon forget -- even if the room was more boxes, linens, and unpacked belongings than anything. A couple days in Skyhold could only afford so much reconfiguration even by the Ambassador’s expedient standards. Olivia could not even sleep in an actual bed, but the couch they had managed to find and dust off proved more than sufficient. She had them place it right in front of the fireplace for good measure. Sleeping on old cushions was a luxury when waking up to a functioning, lit hearth.

She did not concern herself with the mess around her for the first hour of being awake. Instead, her eyes and mind were fixated on the sword that rested over the mantle -- her mantle. The sword she had in her hands as she bowed reverently to the cheering crowd below. Her posture was not that of a gallant hero, but a mindful servant. It was a wonder if people would incorporate that into her lore: the way she did not posturate herself even after all she had done.

Even as the minutes wore on the way the firelight danced on certain angles of the sword captivated her. Bundled up with several fleece blankets with her knees hugged to her chest, she was contending with it like the ghost in the room. Her Father never made much of a fuss when he received knew honorifics and the gifts they came with as far as she could remember. Every new metallic decoration on his formal uniform seemed to be nothing more than one more object to spit shine. Men like her Father were the kind to teach their sons to be modest in the face of praise by virtue of his example. It was a pity he never had the chance, and instead knew only one daughter who was more of a flighty turtle dove in and out of the smothering grasp of her Mother, than a child. How would he have reacted if he had seen her sword in hand, the harbinger of a Holy War. Perhaps it would have been enough to compel him to forgive her for all she had done before that day.

Between her knees and chest her left hand rubbed itself as if she were playing with dirt or sand. The reverberations and episodes of the anchor’s power often led her to absentmindedly fidget. Sometimes it was like a limb having fallen asleep, other times like a slightly stinging burn. While no rubbing, holding, or even rinsing could stem the sensations, Olivia worked towards becoming more comfortable with it as time wore on.

Her meditations were interrupted as the door creaked open from down the stairs. When Ambassador Montilyet made herself known, Olivia’s lack of fretful preparation was vindicated. Josephine was hardly a visitor to grow nervous about at this point.

“My Lady, forgive me for disturbing you early in the morning. I have merely come to finalize some timely decisions with your input,” the Ambassador greeted, approaching the right side of the couch with quill and clipboard at the ready.

Olivia refocused her vision and glanced her way, offering a soft smile. “Good morning, Ambassador. What have you arranged, exactly?”

“I have made orders for more appropriate furnishings and decorations for the fortress and your personal quarters. Their arrival to the fortress will be much...anticipated,” Josephine said as her eyes drifted critically around the room. “There remains, however, the concern of your wardrobe.”

Olivia smirked. “Is my armor and outdoor gear not sufficient?”

“Certainly not. An Inquisitor must appear polished and secure within her stature. This includes her attire and implementation of fashion. All eyes will be on you should you embark on matters of diplomacy and social engagement,” Josephine paced slowly, taking notes as she dictated her advice.

The Inquisitor, amused and bereft at the responsibilities being piled on from every which direction, slid her blankets off of her body as she rose to her feet at last. Wearing nothing but a simple linen dress she had borrowed from a fellow Mage, she was rather provincial in appearance. Her hair, messy and down around her shoulders, framing her face that had lingering dried dirt and sweat.

“What details am I allowed to determine, specifically?”

Josephine gave her the once-over, observing the disheveled nature of her aesthetics. She raised a brow, but otherwise concealed her opinions. “Well, do you have a fabric or color palette you find most flattering?”

“I’m afraid my tastes have been restricted to the three shades of blue the Circle gowns and uniforms afford us. Before that, I was dressed like a doll with or without my consent.” Olivia shrugged as she sat crookedly on the couch armrest nearest to Lady Montilyet. “I prefer that my clothes are breathable and sturdy.”

“That may be the case for a portion of your repertoire, my Lady, but we must also consider the priority of your elevation. Your reputation is dependent upon imagery nearly as much as action.”

“Then what would you suggest?”

Josephine’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and she looked away for a moment. Her quill tapped pensively on a corner of her parchment. Clearly, restructuring the personal style of a Mage who had spent a decade being dressed with gowns hundreds of other women wore just like her was not an everyday dilemma. Nonetheless, it provided an opportunity for creativity she would most certainly take advantage of.

“What is your favorite color, if you could choose?”

Olivia scrunched her mouth to one side, thinking off the top of her head. “What about black?”  
Josephine blinked. “Black?! Of all colors and patterns?”

“Yes, I think it most refined. The dresses my Mother put me in were always fluffy and bright, it was so obnoxious,” she giggled. “I wanted to wear dark colors like the Men, or the characters in the Operettas.”

Listening to her sincerity, Josephine exhaled a bit with a patient smile on her face. “Inquisitor, are there...any other colors you find appealing?”

“I do like grey, and dark purple. Oh and metallic shades, like that of onyx or obsidian…”

The Ambassador shook her head, sorry she asked now that it appeared Olivia was not going to budge or reveal a secret love for all things pastel. “Ah...very well, then. I suppose, given your infamy, it may be an opportunity for a clever reclamation.”

“The Black Dove, you mean?”

Josephine finished writing her line of notes before she nodded in affirmation. “Precisely. Though, we must be careful to walk the line between that moniker and your most important one: Inquisitor. Rest assured I am up for the challenge.”

Olivia giggled softly, shaking her head. “I trust no one more-so than you on a tightrope, Lady Ambassador.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. In Antiva, such talents are considered prerequisites for proper manners,” the Ambassador played, a smirk on her lips. “I will have arrangements made as soon as possible; we will need to take measurements, to be sure. Until then, you are left to your own devices. I shall see you when our morning Council meeting adjourns later this morning.”

“Thank you Josephine, I look forward to it. Be sure to tell the tailors and seamstresses the opaquer and darker, the better.”

Approaching the stairs, the Ambassador half-halted as she took a semi-worried breath, perhaps imagining what it would be like to have an entire wardrobe order doused in black fabric and gothic flare. It was most un-Orlesian, and a departure from her own tastes.

“Are you sure this is not simply the advice of that Lord Dorian, my Lady?”

Olivia giggled, shaking her head. “This time, I am afraid not. More like my spiritual bastardization and my fascination with all things considered unconventional.”

“Certainly, Inquisitor,” she raised a brow, starting down the stairs. “Then we will make midnight feel as if it were unending sunshine.”

Left by herself again Olivia amused herself with the Ambassador’s parting words. Part of her believed it a joke, but, from what she had learned of Josephine, the woman was to be taken seriously at all costs. Time would tell just what she got herself into in provoking her imagination. As she turned back around to face the mantle she had been admiring, her gaze once again narrowed in on the sword.

_If this is my chance for rebirth, then it will be tandem with the darkness I was condemned to._

\--

Later that day Olivia found herself with a slight hankering for political debate, and with both Dorian nowhere to be seen and Vivienne taking time for herself, she resolved that maybe the Seeker would be up for the challenge. Walking with arms cradling reports and scrolls -- because multitasking was a skill she would have to improve upon fast -- she caught word that Seeker Pentaghast had settled her own workspace in a loft above the Smith’s shop. Entering the building, there were ruffled angry noises coming from above her head.

“You knew where Hawke was all along!” an furious Nevarran roared amongst the sounds of tumbling wood. Next came the sound of rushed footfalls, and Olivia’s penchant for throwing herself into the middle of conflict kicked in. She rushed up the stairs clutching her belongings securely against her chest, heart racing at the idea of aggression awaiting her.

“You’re damned right I did!” Varric yelled back.

“You conniving little shit!” Cassandra cursed as she swung at him. Olivia reached the top of the stairs just as Varric had snuck out of the way.

“You kidnapped me! You interrogated me! What did you expect?”

Olivia stepped in, then, standing towards the middle point between the two tempers. “There is no need for throwing punches,” she said adamantly.

“You’re taking his side?!” Cassandra bit back.

“Who said I was taking either of your sides? Enough is enough!”

Varric huffed then and stepped closer to the Inquisitor. Meanwhile, Cassandra swayed in her angst as Olivia became the physical barrier between them, her jaw clenched. Her stare was almost as furious as it had been in the prison cell, and the parallel left Olivia instinctively defensive.

“We needed someone to lead this Inquisition!” Cassandra continued, “First, Leliana and I searched for the Hero of Ferelden, but she had vanished. Then, we looked for Hawke, but she was gone, too. We thought it all connected, but no.” She then glared Varric’s way. “It was just you. You kept him from us.”

Varric stared right back, undaunted. He gestured towards Olivia who looked as though she were a young scholar who stumbled upon a bar fight. “The Inquisition has a leader!”

However factual his statement was, it did not satisfy the Seeker. “Hawke would have been at the Conclave. If anyone could have saved Most Holy…”

“Varric is not to blame for the events at the Conclave. None of us are,” Olivia interjected at last, having heard enough of the back-and-forth. Her skills as the friend who would and could finish arguments no matter their catalyst came in handy.

“I was protecting my friend,” Varric asserted, having gained more support in the dispute. Cassandra merely narrowed her eyes, and turned toward Olivia with a few steps closer to where she stood still the entire time.

“Varric is a liar, Inquisitor. A snake. Even after the Conclave, when we needed Hawke most, Varric kept her secret.”

“She’s here now, we’re on the same side!” he retorted.

“We all know whose side you’re on, Varric,” Cassandra said as she waved her hand dismissively at him, “it will never be the Inquisition’s.”

Olivia glanced in either direction, now done with the contention. She rushed a few steps forward and dumped the rolls and papers on the table, the brusque act sending them rolling and sprawling across it. Turning around to face them again she put her hands on her hips.

“In-fighting gets us nowhere. What’s done is done, Seeker,” she said to Cassandra.

“Hah! Exactly,” Varric agreed, a sharp laugh along with his triumph.

“And you, Varric,” Olivia stared back at him, “no more secrets, or else you will be directly disrespecting me, and not just her, or anyone here on their own. Got it?”

Varric’s expression turned on a dime. No matter his disagreements with the Seeker, Olivia’s employment of her own feelings was not something he could turn a blind eye towards now. The newly-minted Inquisitor had that effect on people, and it was deepening in pull by the day. He growled and waved his hands in surrender.

“Fine, I understand,” he grumbled, heading for the stairs to withdraw from the battle once and for all. Before he began down the stairs, though, he uttered one last comment. “You know, if Hawke had been at the Temple? She’d be dead too. You people have done enough to her.”

Cassandra, who had turned away to stand near the balcony, replied in a more somber voice than she had used before. “Go, Varric, just go.”

Watching him leave, the tension in the air devolved into sullen regret. Olivia exhaled the tension from her chest, rubbing the side of her face as she turned her attention to the one person that remained in her presence.

“I...believed him,” Cassandra muttered. “He spun his story for me and I swallowed it. If I had only just explained what was at stake...but I didn’t.” The Seeker turned away from the balcony rail, then, and went to sit at the bench seat attached to the table. “I did not explain why we needed Hawke. I am...I am such a fool.”

Olivia stood still as she spoke, eyeing her from over her shoulder. This was uncharted territory for her, witnessing Cassandra be so candid about her own shortcomings. In her voice she heard the authentic sorrow, relating to it for better or worse. She approached the other end of the long table and stepped up onto its bench seat, electing to sit on the edge of the tabletop itself. Her hands coupled underneath her lap.

“Would things truly have been so different if you had managed to track Hawke down?” she asked, straightening her posture.

Cassandra sat upright, resting her hand on her thigh. “Honestly? Hawke might not even have agreed in the first place. She supported the Mage Rebellion after all, she wouldn’t have trusted me for…” Cassandra linked eyes with Olivia, who in turn suddenly looked personally implicated. Her words tapered off in favor of a small epiphany: in the grand scheme of things, a Mage rebel had slipped from her grasp only to make way for the placement of another. In the awkward silence, Olivia grinned on one side of her mouth and took a breath.

“I see,” Olivia replied, looking back at her messy pile of parchment she had tossed in favor of playing mediator.

“This…” Cassandra struggled to re-focus, “this is not truly about Hawke, or even Varric. I should have been more careful -- I should have been smarter. I don’t deserve to be here.” She then looked down at the ground, her jaw grinding.

Olivia let the silence fill the air for a moment as she contemplated the issue. To a Mage, mourning and grief were as much a part of life as any subliminal feeling. Rather than a suppressive dissonance, however, it meant being keenly aware of the existence of it in other people. The Inquisition was full of people enduring a lack of space and time to look back at what had been lost, in favor of an urgent call to action for the sake of the future.

“Cassandra,” Olivia said whilst still gazing at her pile of paperwork, the first time she had said her name in a long while, “you told me a mere two days ago that the Inquisition requires us to look past differences in favor of something greater. Would it make sense, then, to assume it also expects us to look beyond our shortcomings?”

Cassandra looked up and back to her. Olivia returned her stare, locking their eyes once more. She let out an exasperated sigh, but one that relieved the heaviness felt between them.

“I suppose you are right, though it does not comfort me as well as it probably should.”

Olivia smiled softly and rest her chin on her hand, elbow on the top of her knee. “That is of no surprise. I think we both know that I live to needle your otherwise carefree existence.”

Cassandra smirked. “Is that why you have brought what looks like half the library in arm and scattered it across the table?”

“Actually, they are all requests for your resignation.”

“Inquisi--”

“The rest are piled outside on a wagon, these were merely the most sensational. I kept them as a pillow overnight. It is rather astonishing, some come with not only words but detailed illustrations.”

Cassandra groaned and rolled her eyes. “Are you quite satisfied with yourself?”

Olivia held back a chuckle, her hand gently across her mouth. “You didn’t let me get to my favorite part. I was going to combine their recitation with an interpretive dance.”

“I would be intrigued to see you try, given your dexterity in the field.”

Olivia shot a smartass glare her way and was met by an amused, crooked grin on Cassandra’s face. Caught in her embellishing, she returned her eyes to the papers she had done a poor job of keeping organized. She took hold with what looked like multiple sets of numbers in need of tedious arithmetic. Holding it above the table she appraised its relevance, her nose scrunching a bit.

“I was merely poking around for trouble, and I thought maybe you would be the woman for the job. Seeing as I came into what looked like a tavern brawl, I think myself quite accomplished in that endeavor.”

Cassandra raised a brow, her stare flickering towards the paper in the Inquisitor’s hands. “Are those the numbers from the outposts for supply requisitions?”

“Yes, the first copy from what I have been told. Perhaps in exchange for sharing, you can tell me more about the Chantry’s history of sorely depending on Mages to be its heroes.” Olivia shot a clever look her way, half-expecting her to look unamused with her tactics. When she did though, she saw what looked like disarmed interest in Cassandra’s hazel irises. Oh, so they were hazel. They always seemed so dark, perhaps brown. No, in this scant light from the window combining with the fire below them, they were in fact anything but.

_Hm, they are actually quite pretty, in this view._

Cassandra conceded, a slight grin forming on her mouth. “Should I start with the Hero of Ferelden, or would you prefer more context?”

Olivia fell back to Earth with her thoughts, and scoffed as she collected her legs underneath her in order to sit completely on the table now with ankles crossed. “You see these double-sided reports, Seeker? You could start with Andraste herself, if you so wished. But do go on, for I do not have eternal daylight to take you to task.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may tell by now I am not that interested in canon scenes/checkpoints as some might, but I do like to incorporate them as benchmarks for the development of relationships and their understanding. I wanted to write this canon scene because I thought with the specific trail of dialogue, it would provoke an interesting dynamic between Olivia and Cassandra concerning Mage politics. That, and further coax Olivia's subliminal need for friendly interaction.


	23. New Heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia continues to learn from the perspectives around her as she fills into her role as Inquisitor. A lesson on flexibility from Sera involving a most underappreciated skill -- tree climbing -- and an encounter with Solas.

“Sera, I can see no foothold on this tree!” Olivia griped with her hands on her hips. Above her head looming on the branch of the courtyard oak tree, Sera crouched rather nonchalantly.

“Enough talkin’ Inquisitor, kick a boot onto the wood and get on with it!”

“But--”

“You got a knife, don’t you?”

Olivia raised a brow, pausing mid-complaint. “Well, yes...”

“Then use it, you don’t see squirrels climbing around without claws!”

Grumbling as she unsheathed her dagger from her waist belt Olivia evaluated the face of the tree she was challenged to scale. This had all begun as another one of their shit-shooting conversations, a tangent from what was supposed to be an assessment of what supplies would be needed for their planned weapon concoctions. Olivia had made the poor choice of recounting the Seeker’s comment on her flexibility, to which Sera responded with audacious initiative. Strutting down and out the Tavern that was under renovation, she found the nearest and most promising tree from which to begin her tutorial.

Ever the one to entertain lessons in needed skill-sets, the Inquisitor wiped both sides her dagger habitually on her thigh. She then reached overhead and plunged the knife into the wood above her head.

“Good, now climb,” Sera commanded.

Olivia thanked the powers that be for her training with Blackwall for any and all upper body strength she could muster for this. Hooking a heel on the tree she pulled herself up several feet off the ground. She slid a bit, and her grace was not anything to write home about, but she did not give up.

“Come on Inquisitor! Hop to, you got five mabaris and a Venny on your heels!” Sera, using her ever-accurate title for Tevinter cultist enemies.

Olivia grit her teeth, an arm reaching over the base of the closest connecting branch. For some reason Sera’s simulation tactics were quite effective in inspiring a rigorous pace. Continuing to build momentum, she dug heavy footsteps against the tree until she could lift a leg up and across the branch, sitting backwards on it at long last. Yanking hard on her dagger she let out a breath. “Alright, now what?”

Sera rose from her crouched position. “Now, you walk.”

“Oh, of course. Naturally. Yes,” Olivia huffed, dusting off her pants. She sheathed her dagger and took a moment to compose herself.

“You can’t be ready sitting on your pretty arse. Once you get over the whole ‘I’m far away from the ground, ahh if I fall I break off somethin’ mess, you’ll be set.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going to stand up,” the Inquisitor announced as she waved her hands around her head. Sera quieted down, giving her a moment to prove her commitment. Her limbs shook a bit as she pushed her weight unto her hands, collecting her legs underneath her with boots on the broad tree limb. Once she had her footing she stood in a crouched position with her eyes half-closed to avoid the nerve-wracking sight of the ground below. Admittedly the whole thing must have looked like a newborn deer gaining its footing, but Olivia’s mind was nailed on her singular goal.

“Ah, come now,” Sera grumbled, reaching and grabbing hold of the rim of the Inquisitor’s breeches. “Stand up already!”

Huffing to herself as she felt her compatriot pull back on her posture Olivia broke her hands free from the bark, pushing herself upright once and for all. Standing as tall as she could with her hands out at her sides like wings she closed her eyes forcefully.

“Why does everyone leap at the chance at grabbing my butt these days?!”

“It’s a nice butt, Inquisitor, but I’m not grabbin’ it. I’m grabbin’ your breeches.”

“Okay, well, you and the Seeker need an anatomy lesson, then.”

“Since when does the Seeker grab girls’ arses?”

“She...uh...well it wasn’t...Oh, sod it!”

Olivia opened her eyes and turned around hands falling to her sides, breaking Sera’s grip on her pants, or butt, or whatever it was that qualified touching. Suddenly her temper had overridden her fear of heights. “You happy, now? Or should I do a handstand?”

Watching her get all fluffed up over light teasing Sera chuckled hoarsely. “Come on, Liv, you’re too stiff to be in a tree. We’ll save the handstands for tomorrow. Now, you gotta just get cozy.”

The response was rather anticlimactic given how brusque the lesson had been, nevertheless Olivia’s heart began to race. The fact that she was standing in a tree became re-centered in her frustration. Holding her hands out more rigidly, she gained the courage to look down and around, taking in the fifteen or so feet she stood to fall if she were clumsy. She wobbled from side to side for a moment but managed to steady herself without having to crouch back down again. She giggled a bit nervously, freezing in place.

“I think the Advisors would skewer me if I broke an arm by virtue of tree-climbing,” she said, watching her feet.

Sera smirked, folding her arms as she seemed to saunter quite gracefully down the branch in Olivia’s direction. “Which is why you have to act as if know what you’re doing, Liv. You can’t just show your arse everywhere and expect people to think you know what the game is.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that, and then they ask me to do things I have no experience in.”

“Well, now you know how to climb a damn tree. Now act like it!”

Olivia sneered playfully, sticking her tongue out a bit at the rogue Elf who tested her patience in the best way. Sera waved her hand at her, shaking her head. “That’s not actin’ like it, but sure.”

About a half hour passed and Olivia had not one, but three back-and-forth laps up and down the branch under her belt. Smug with herself, she and Sera were now taking a break to sit together and people watch. One Smith scratching a little too far up his trousers, a Tavern maid singing a song loudly as if no one was around to listen, and a somber Commander Cullen stomping back from assessing something somewhere neither of them knew about.

“Inquisitor, there’s something I’ve been thinkin’ of asking you, and now that I have ya up a branch, I want to say it,” Sera sad as she gathered a knee to her chest.

Olivia, slouching and tearing a leaf between her fingers absentmindedly, shrugged with little concern. “Sure, Sera. What is your concern?”

Sera glanced at her, a brow raised but an otherwise more sincere expression than she typically gave off. Olivia grew a bit nervous, but staved off jumping to conclusions before she even had a chance to explain herself.

“Your...about your past. The Mage stuff and everything, and the brothels. Did you...did you shit on yourself for it? I mean, did you feel rotten, or was it kinda…” her words hesitant as she trailed off.

Olivia’s eyes widened a bit. “You mean, did I feel ashamed?”

“Yeah, I suppose. Not that I think you should, that’s none of my business.”

Tossing the remnants of the leaf from her hands and dusting her palms briefly, Olivia sighed. “I said I would never apologize for it, and I mean it. What I did was a complicated choice. But I can’t think of any of the men I killed, their faces, and see someone worth regret. They were all monsters corrupted by greed and power. Their life meant an innocent’s death.”

Sera stared out ahead of them, her legs swinging to-and-fro underneath her. “You never fancied one of them?”

Olivia scoffed. “No, why ever would I?”

“I don’t know! It seems like muddy business getting tangled up in bed with the sort you’d kill. Breeds trouble, I think.”

“Not if you go into it understanding they are who they are. Too many people take others to bed thinking that is supposed to reveal their true nature, if you ask me. I think it smarter to know them first before you every try to bust in a bedroom door.”

“Not if they’re annoying everywhere else but in bed,” Sera smirked, “then you got is ass-backwards.”

Shrugging with a chuckle under her breath, Olivia nodded in concession. “I am sure, then, an exception would be necessary. I’m just not the sort to bother with those kind of people.”

“Those people got the best stories, once they’re shut up by a round or two in the sack. Just don’t try to rob a nobleman with them, then they start thinking their annoying opinions matter.”

The Inquisitor giggled, running a hand through her hair. “Duly noted.”

Olivia and Sera exchanged clever grins, then, before turning their attention to an approaching figure below. It looked to be a courier from the Ambassador’s office, someone Olivia had only caught a glimpse of whilst passing through once or twice. She was holding a piece of parchment, larger and folded in half.

“My Lady Inquisitor!” she called out, a bit intimidated by the position she had found Olivia in.

Not to be intimidating past reason, Olivia smiled and waved. “Yes! Hello, you have a gift for me?”

The woman grinned and sighed bashfully. “Yes, My Lady, from the Spymaster and Ambassador!”

“Splendid, well, hand it over. Sera, do you mind?” Glancing in Sera’s direction, she smiled fiendishly as she adjusted her position on the branch leaning further back. Without another word she let her upper body fall backwards until she hung completely upside down from the limb, hair falling and hanging in waves and tangled curls. Sera scooted closer and rested an anchoring hand hold on her thigh, clearly a precaution of a still gravity-weary Herald.

Olivia couldn’t help but giggle as blood rushed to her head. She held an arm out behind her, waving the girl to her. “Come now, I promise I don’t bite!”

The woman’s brows were raised high in surprise, but at her wish she hurried over with letter hand outstretched. In an instant she handed off the report, bowing her head even though Olivia could not see it.

“Thank you, My Lady,” she grinned before rushing off back to her stationed post.

Olivia blew a spit of air to shake a strand of hair stuck on her lips, holding the letter in front of her eyes for a moment as if being upside down was proper reading posture.

“Ah, the report from the marshes!” she announced, swiftly lurching back upright next to Sera. The dizzy vision refocusing, she pushed her hair out of her face and went about opening the sealed parchment. Sera, seeing that Olivia had returned to her perch, retracted her thigh and took to fidgeting with her hands once more.

“Ay, the missing soldiers?” she asked simply.

“Yes,” Olivia replied, her eyes scanning the lines of detail. “It looks like they’ve been tracked down to a region called the Fallow Mire. Reports of plague and inclement weather conditions.” Finishing the last line she took a breath, collapsing her hands into her lap.

“Well, Sera, you keen on an excursion?” she asked, head tilted.

“Is there gonna be more magic fumblings there?” Sera replied suspiciously.

“Do you want to hear it now, or when we’re on the road?”  
“Agh! Maker, I knew it!”

Olivia laughed softly, folding the letter back into shape. “Oh, come now, surely there’ll be trees to hide in should we run into too much trouble.”

“I don’t give a Maker’s hairy ear about trees when there’s demons coming at me!” She leaned away from the Inquisitor, staring back at her with a critical expression. “How bad is it?”

“The Scouts will have a full report once we are there. You’ll just have to trust me!”

Sera’s eyes narrowed, and she growled. “Fine, but if I get hung up on a rod somewhere as bait I’m shooting an arrow a yard up your breeches, and you won’t get to mouth off about people touchin’ it.”

\--

Returning from her time spent with Sera, Olivia took the opportunity to steal away for a moment and peek inside the library tower. There had not yet been enough time to receive shipments of books on loan from libraries across Thedas, but just the sight of the shelves open and full of possibility excited her. The cylindrical space reminded her of the tower with its spiraling stairs, shelf after shelf of space. It was fitting in her mind that the ground floor would belong to Solas, the person so erudite and slightly pompous, but nevertheless valued in her mind.

Her eyes lit up when she gazed up from his new office quarters, the cavernous light stretching down from the windows. There she found Solas, making do with the spare furnishings the Inquisition workers had managed to either move in or repurpose. He was standing with his arms gathered at his back, facing away from the door with his attention on the books and collected papers.

“Solas! I am glad to have found you,” Olivia greeted, noticing her voice echoing a bit.

Beyond the element of surprise, Solas turned to the side and eyed her. “Yes, hello Inquisitor. I trust you are well.”

“I am. How are you finding your new arrangements?”

Solas smirked softly, chin lowering a bit. “They are unorthodox, however it provides opportunity for growth within lasting infrastructure. I will make use of it.”

Olivia then spun around slowly, taking it all in. Her face still gawking at the heights and spaciousness. She bit back a smile when at last she looked down to make eye contact with him. “It is a wonder. I am excited to see what we are able to fill these halls with. It will be good to be able to study again.”

“One does not need the collections of a fortress library in order to make themselves useful in the pursuit of knowing, Inquisitor. There are means above and beyond their potential that can expand your understanding without so much as opening one cover.”

“Oh? And what means may those be?”

Solas seemed ready to answer, but he stopped himself. His mouth closed as he took a swaying step closer to her.

“I do not think you came here for a lecture, at least not for today. By the looks of what remained of the door to the fortress gardens, you have been configuring that truth for yourself.”

Olivia folded her arms as she recalled the door which all-too-easily became scrap wood for a fire. Before that moment she had merely practiced lifting and moving forest objects like rocks or branches. Her anger propelled her to reach beyond what she had routinely reached for; regardless of the emotive source of power, she was growing as a Mage.

“I...it was a tantrum.”  


“It was not the methods by which it occurred that I was referring to, but rather the fact that it came to pass. In any case I am not wishing to admonish you; my care is for the level you have managed to work towards. You have come far for the Mage I first met at the Temple ruins.”

“I do not know if I agree, Solas. It was a door, I got frustrated that it would not unlock. It was clumsy of me to break it instead of simply forcing it open.”  


Solas scanned the insecurity in her face, his own expression becoming smug. He glance down at the ground pensively for a moment.

“If I may suggest, Your Worship, it would be wise if you were to take up the majority of your magic training with the other Mage allies you have assembled. Perhaps Lord Dorian, or the Enchanter. They will be much more appropriate for the pursuit which you have embarked upon.”

Olivia’s brow furrowed. The sudden turn in the conversation caught her off guard, and her nervous heart began to race. “Solas, have I done something to offend you?”

In response to her sensitivity, Solas paused. Olivia had been a most dutiful learner in their time practicing together, however her direction as both Inquisitor and Mage had evolved beyond the realm of a cautious individual barely beyond their apprentice education. She still had much to learn, but her education now required an intensity he would not be culpable for alone.

“Inquisitor, you have done well to commit to your conditioning and techniques as a Mage. However as it stands I cannot alone be your source of method.”

“I never asked you to, I thought if anything it was merely…” Olivia started off adamant, but as she spoke she caught herself. Her eyes shifted, dulling in their confidence -- Solas noticed it, and his grin broadened.

“You merely thought it was the consortium of a friend and ally.”  


Olivia closed her mouth, then, and looked down at the ground. Her boot heel skid across the gravely floor. In her efforts to maintain relationships at an arm’s length she had created bonds counterintuitively nourished by both emotional and social ambition.

“Very well,” she grumbled a bit, rubbing her arm. “May we still converse on matters pertaining to the rifts, and the anchor?”

“Certainly. I cannot deject myself from the obligations which my presence here is required by. I am at your service,” he answered cordially, nodding his head.

“Good, because while I was hiking through the Frostbacks after Haven I was kicking myself at never getting to hear your stories about the Fade,” Olivia played, a crooked smile growing on her lips. She then placed a hand on Solas’s arm. “I appreciate all that you have done for me.”  


Solas stood still, neither leaning in or away from her touch. “All of what I have acted upon has been of necessity, Your Worship. Nevertheless, I appreciate your congeniality. I must return to my readings; if you have a need of me, I shall be right here.”

Nodding in return, Olivia stepped backwards a few steps, delaying her turning her back to him. Their faces turned from each other, but as she was revolving around to face the door she had entered through, a thought strayed into her head and halted her in her tracks.

“Solas,” she said, stopping and looking back at him, “this wouldn’t have anything to do with what I admitted to in the gardens?”

The Apostate did not immediately turn back to her. His hands went to his sides, and he did not show any sign of sudden rigidity as if he had been found out. Instead he simply peered from over his shoulder at her. His eyes were still keen, but well-meaning.

“Why would I conduct myself based upon the choices you have made in the past as if I, myself possess the quality of absolute insight?”

“I don’t know. My life as a human could be considered quite irrelevant to your experiences. I wouldn’t blame you for being...displeased.”

“Inquisitor,” Solas rotated his shoulders to face her once more, “the intimacies of other people’s choices are no concern of mine; if I exerted my energies on deciphering cause and effect, it would be a waste of my time.”

“So you have no opinion either way?”

“It is not important, thus not worth sharing. The confines of unchangeable truths cannot distract us from what we are able to influence for the sake of the future.”

Olivia’s lips remained parted. She found herself a bit nauseated at the way Solas was not giving a definitive answer. He only occasionally managed to annoy her -- most days she was very patient and accommodating for whatever fashion he chose to bestow knowledge or communication. Maybe it was spending so much time with Sera, who never bothered with useless nuances, that had lowered her patience for it.

“Quite poignant advice to give to a Harlot,” Olivia smirked.

Solas looked ready to say something, but he halted. He looked quizzical now in the face of her turn of phrase. “And is that what you wish to be known for, Inquisitor? The parallels of Rebellion and your upliftment as the Herald of Andraste?”

“I’m not sure, yet. Though it helps to have trial discourse such as this for me to figure it out. I will take my leave, now, and let you return to your activities. I look forward to our next conversation.” Olivia bowed her head. It was easier to turn away and leave the second time around. She waved her hand gently, a final act before she made for the door. The expression she saw on Solas’s face was one of ambivalence above all, but she believed she knew him well enough to understand that he wasn’t completely removed from the conversation. Even if he was, something in her warned against provoking a candid temper.


	24. Encircled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback of Olivia's transferal to the Ostwick Circle, about ten years before the events at the Conclave.

_Matrinalis,9:30 Dragon. The Villas northeast of the Imperial Capitol, Val Royeaux._

With everything packed, either stored away or in luggage to follow her departure, the room hardly looked like one a lively girl slept in. The servants did not even wait for her to leave, having the bed already stripped. There were sheets tossed over the furnishings to prevent dust from accumulating. This room would not be repurposed. This room would be a reminder.

As she withdrew for the last time, Olivia adjusted her traveling cloak fit around her shoulders, loosening the collar a bit. The metallic embellishment sewn into it made it stiff against her neck as if she was in a subtle choke hold. Everyone was waiting for her in the foyer; the wing her chamber was tucked in as desolate as a tomb. As she walked herself down the cavernous hallway, it was as if she were implementing a one-woman funerary processional.

It wasn’t until she had come to the top of the stairs leading down to the vestibule that she saw traces of life: a line of their most senior servants standing at attention as if the patriarch of the household were preparing to leave. But it was his daughter – his only child – that was taking flight from House Sinclair this morning. She walked tall but with little conviction -- no use is seeming cowardly when you have nothing left to lose.

Making her way down she was the picture of practiced poise. Her hands cupped each other in front of her waist, and she absentmindedly pinched the muscle between her thumb and index finger. As her footfalls gained attention, she saw a well-dressed man with a greying stubble along his jawline turn to face her. His long, increasingly grey hair tied up. The coat he wore was perfectly tailored and velveteen.

Father.

Arriving on the ground floor she remained unimpressed in her expression. All eyes were on her, but in her mind they were already miles away. The only connection keeping her tied to the present moment was his grin, undoubtedly fueled by the last ounces of fortitude he had in the face of saying goodbye.

“Olivia,” he said, the warm vibrato of his voice disarming her indifference, “you look…you look beautiful, my darling.” His accent was heavy but clear, the kind you would want to narrate bedtime stories or the scene of a play. It had grown slightly hoarse over the years but it never stopped being one of the few sounds Olivia was partial to. Though, in this moment, her young ego was consumed by the need to appear capable. His complement only sank in so far: dressed in a olive green gown, long-sleeve with a straight, corseted neckline and a matching colored cloak, Olivia felt like a plant and not a woman. She would be better off being sprawled across a platter served at a soiree.

“Thank you, Father. It will probably be the last time I get to wear something of refinement for a long while,” she observed, standing face-to-face. His broad stature was overbearing when it came to her slender frame.

 

“Are you ready, then?” he asked, swallowing stiffly as his eyes became duller in their light.

“Yes, as much as I can be. Are they waiting outside?”

“Of course they are. Templars hardly beckon ceremony when it comes to…” he stopped, eyes to the floor. Even though it was stark reality, undeniable and irrevocable, he hadn’t yet accepted the fact that it applied to his darling girl. To their life, rather than some friend-of-a-friend or otherwise.

Olivia, seeing the lapse in his expression, reached a hand to his shoulder. “It is alright, Father. Ostwick is known for its seclusive safety, remember?”

“Of course. It is just that I pictured your departure from my roof in such a different way. You cannot blame me for my lamentations, I get so few opportunities to do so.”

Olivia smirked, and without another word she wrapped his arms around his neck, hugging him with the surrender of a daughter to a father who had never wished to let her down. As he held her around her waist, she felt the weary strength of a former soldier seeming to crack under her sympathetic hold.

Abominable creations were abominable creations until they were born of your own blood, had your nose, and filled your days with innocent laughter at the silliest of transgressions.

Pulling away she gazed up at him, taking in the weathered intricacies of his face one last time. Something inside her ached for reasons she did not understand. It was bizarre, the instinct to care for the parent she knew to be complicit in her exploitation. For a slippery moment she was caught in the veiled borderline of her identity, before life would reconvene taking things from her.

“I will write. I promise,” she said sweetly, taking his hands into her own. “I am doing the best thing for me, and for the family.”

Lord Sinclair watched as her hands rubbed his own, the smallness of them. “You already sound like a woman, the way you speak.”

“Someone has to.”

“Olivia,” he chuckled cautiously, “take care with your Mother. She is, as we all are, a product of our origins.”

“I would love to, had she come to send me off. I cannot grant reprieve to a shadow, Father.”

He tensed as he turned to the side, keeping hold of one of her hands to guide her towards the entryway. The doors were already open, a light breeze on her face as they entered the sunlight. Down the steps a humble carriage awaited her along with two Templars standing shoulder-to-shoulder. The interviews and intake of background on her had already been done – they knew everything there was to know, and then some, including choice words from a noble-born Imperial field Officer warning against the mistreatment of his daughter. Her middle-class life had granted her some sense of decorum.

At last they stood in the middle of the stairs when Olivia turned to her Father, taking a stiff breath. “I can enter my own carriages, Father.”

He chuckled, a bittersweet reaction to his daughter’s irreverence for sentimentality. He squeezed her hand as he eyed the two men armed in Chantry metal. The look of warriors respectfully prepared to take life was nothing new to him.

“Very well, Olivia,” he sighed.

She smiled softly, not wanting the last expression he had of her to be indifference. “I know I am restless. But I am my Father’s daughter.”

“Yes, and for that, I am afraid you have been doomed,” he admitted as he reached into the pocket of his breeches. Pulling out a handkerchief that seemed to be methodically folded, he opened her hand and placed it in the middle of her palm. “This belonged to your Mother’s mother. She asked me to bestow it upon you before you left. The embroidery is custom, she said.”

Olivia’s brow furrowed, the thin, brittle cloth on her skin. So much for maternal investment, then. It took everything in her to feign appreciation. As she clutched it and grinned, the relief in her father’s eyes that she would not be hostile towards the token of “affection” was enough for her.

“Thank you, Father. Now, if I may go?” she said, tilting her chin.

“Yes, you may. Safe travels, my love,” he leaned and kissed her forehead one final time, before breaking away from her touch completely.

Olivia curtsied out of principle to the Lord of the house, before reaching back and pulling her cloak hood over her head of intricately woven hair. Stepping down the stairs and into the awaiting carriage, she found the Templar’s guiding hand to be cold for it being so thickly gloved. Their acknowledgement of her was neither here nor there – but in time she would come to understand that when it came to their attention, indifference was a gift.

She did not look out the window when they began to ride off. It would be too sentimental and would go beyond the level of pain she had for the situation. She knew her Father would convey his emotions in writing in due course, and to exacerbate the moment would have been unnecessary. One more visual of the home she had always known to be a labyrinth of useless pining for maternal affection, was one too many.

As they turned a corner onto a more desolate country road which connected her region directly to the Capitol, and thus to the port, she oddly relaxed. For some reason this road more than any other checkpoint in the journey meant she was being let go. She stared off into the rapidly-passing greenery that had been fading into browns, oranges, and purples for weeks prior. The harvest season was soon to pass. Everyone would be enjoying each other’s hospitality in villas and manors across the Empire, celebrating prosperity both sincere and dellusional. Not her, though – she would be gone, gone as the wine in the barrels after one of her Aunt Clotilde's infamous festival Balls. And just as bitterly dried up.

As her mind wandered, she clung to the itchy fabric of her grandmother’s handkerchief. It laid half unfolded in her two palms. The sight of it – its flimsiness, its value, its meaning – enraged her. In the place of a Mother, she had something which she had always been trained to strive for: empty wealth.

Lady Apolline Sinclair made her husband greet and say goodbye to their only child by handing off a square cut piece of overly-appraised linen. She had advised him to up-sale its worth, in a way to say she had some form of consideration. She had done far below the bare minimum with impunity, as always. Olivia did not know what woman she was to become, or what being a Circle Mage would even allow her to be at all, dead or alive. But the bottom line was thus: she would never allow anyone to conflate her love with material dissonance.

She looked on straight ahead, and within a few heartbeats’ worth of time, smoke began to billow from her lap up. She did not bat an eye or cough a strained breath of air. The good-for-nothing rag was burning like it had been doused in embers from a fireplace: quietly, but quickly, reducing to ash. Her hands became increasingly blackened by the residue.

She could hear the Templars riding on either side on their own horses exchange words. Words of disgust and disturbance; their sensitivity to magic outed. But she paid no mind. As her eyes glowed intemperately in the dimly-lit cab, everything to do with others’ opinions was inconsequential. Little did she know this would not be the last, nor the most disastrous time she would test the patience of men with the ability to destroy her should she dare so again.

\--

The voyage had been caustic and uncomfortable for what she was used to, but Olivia had soaked in every fleeting trace of liberty it gave her. She pretended the entire way that she was her own woman, her own Lady, embarking on an adventure of her own volition. The Templars were merely her own contracted guard.

First things first was being showed to her room – a room that was a shared space between her and several other girls of similar age. Everyone wanted to know the new Orlesian addition was, and how she came to be so far away from home. 16 years of age was not uncommon for a new apprentice, so the Chantry would say. Reality, on the other hand, would have testified that it was more common than not to grow up in a Circle from the ages of 10 or 11, and that was if you had not been orphaned earlier. Olivia had the privilege of being born into a life that could hide her...for a time. Such a detail inspired quickfire gossip: Maybe she had been hidden. Maybe she was lying about her background. Maybe this, maybe that.

She sat on her narrow bed, her new sanctuary of rest, as her belongings were tossed around her. They had been searched thoroughly for stowed away objects that would be dangerous in the hands of a young, inexperienced Mage. Secretly she wished for it all to be thrown out. After a few minutes of desolation, footsteps echoed in the doorway; not heavy-set by Templar armor, but done under the confines of apprentice gowns.

“Hah, so it is true." A crass voice, callous on the ears. Fereldan.

“Sh, she is right there!” another one, quieter and a bit more polished. Though, its conservatism lacked the artistic tone of an Orlesian tongue.

Olivia looked over her shoulder. “Are you my chamber mates?” she asked sweetly, not wishing to make enemies so early in the game.

The suspected Fereldan squirmed a bit, probably from the other one nudging her in the side. “Um, no, we actually are down the hall. You live with a bunch of prudes. They wouldn’t put someone like you with us for your first cot,” she answered bluntly.

“Someone like me?” she asked as she stood to face them, brow lifted. She then reached for her cloak clasp in the middle of her neck to undress from her traveling attire. She could now see the full likeness of the two, and they looked to be around her age. The blunt one had a head of rich brown hair, braided messily over her shoulder. Her face was an angular oval shape, and her dark and round brows framed her eyes beautifully. But it was the other girl for whom Olivia’s eyes stilled: the shorter one, but similar in build. She had a paler face. Her eyes were piercing and looked to be purple in hue – a most obscure shade for a human, but as Olivia would learn, not unheard of for one imbued with magic. However, it wasn’t any of those qualities that stuck out above all – it was her hair. Her white hair, stark and straight around her face.

Olivia stopped herself as she tossed her cloak onto her bed. "May I...ask if you are of Bann Trevelyan, of the Free Marches?”

The girl then smirked, her initial bashfulness giving way to wit. “Unfortunately.”

“You…you are here?”

“Yes. Have been for some time. Did you miss me at whatever Maker-forsaken Ball my Aunts have thrown this season? Oh, if my Mother ever allowed me to show my face when you attended one.”

“I do not believe we have met, but, the Trevelyan hair is infamous in Val Royeaux.”

The brunette groaned loudly, a most unattractive sound as she slouched. “Of course, she’s Orlesian. Maker’s ass, I have such rotten luck around here!” she rolled her eyes and leaned her back on the door frame in surrender. Her friend chuckled as if she had won a bet.

“Down, Veronica. We would be hypocritical to judge,” she chided with a crooked smile before returning her glance to the newest inductee. “My name is Theia. This fool beside me is Veronica, of Denerim. We are some of the older apprentices in the Circle. We were curious as to who you were.”

“I am nothing to be curious about, I’m afraid,” Olivia shook her head with a grin. “My name is Lady Olivia Sinclair.”

“Lady…” Veronica mocked under her breath. “It’s like meeting you all over again.”

“Hush. It is not a crime to express yourself like you have been taught to, Veronica.”

“Fine. Do me a favor then, and introduce me as ‘useless mouse with a knack for trouble,’ next time we make a new acquaintance. You know, since we are all supposed to identify as what we were called.”

Theia chuckled, stepping into the room. “Ignore her. She’s been a pain in everyone’s backside since there was a rumor spread that she will be Harrowed soon.”

“Harrowed?”

“It’s…” Theia took a breath, “It’s the final rite to becoming a Mage of the Circle. No one truly knows what it involves until it happens to you, and we are never told beforehand when we will be expected to do it. But, you have to train as an apprentice for some time before you can be considered ready. So, good news for you, right?”

“I…suppose…” Olivia hesitated, folding her arms. “Is everything always so mysterious and shrouded in rules?”

“Hah!” Veronica stifled an uproarious laugh. “Like a Free Marcher’s smallclothes, I’m afraid.”

Theia growled. “Veronica!”

Olivia betrayed the tension by giggling. After all, the joke was not unlike the ones mumbled back home about the stuffy and dry Marchers up north. Theia appeared to be outnumbered in her offense “Look,” she digressed, “ we just came to say if you need any help, we are down the hall and willing to…assist you settling in. Here, apprentices can be rather unwelcoming to new competition. You would do well to make friends before you make adversaries.”

“Is that an offer, or a threat?” Olivia coaxed.

“It’s a blessing from the Maker’s powdered ass,” Veronica interjected, putting her hands on her hips. “Now, are you going to play nice, or should we do what all good, sensible people do with Orlesians and ignore you while we get the actual work done?”

Olivia spat back: “I am offended at the notion that I am waiting to be saved by an alliance of good favor, especially considering that you have come to me. Obviously you have identified some value in being connected, a mere stranger who has not yet even unpacked her belongings. What is the Game?”

Theia shook her head fast. “It is not a Game, it’s—”

“Not everyone in Thedas sees everything as a game, woman,” Veronica interrupted a second time. “In the Circle, friends mean protection, and protection means survival. If you are here to practice double-dealing like you were spoon-fed all your life, you won’t last very long. You have to be loyal. We want to know ahead of time whether or not to sweat over you, or let you flounder on your own pretty time.”

“What…Veronica…so eloquently meant,” Theia sighed, “is that here, friendships are not just superficial, or for entertainment. They get you things, and they provide…assurance. If you have our backs, we will have yours, but it has to be sincere.”

Olivia eyed them both, trying to understand just how two such distinct personalities could come together and form a bond. “I did not think friendship was supposed to be insincere in the first place, but…I would be amiable to it.”

Theia smiled, relief on her face. “Splendid! Well, we should be off, then, before Veronica ruins all good things like she always does.” She rushed back to the door, strong-arming Veronica by the arm and dragging her back with her.

“We practice magic in the mornings down in the east wing, every other day at dawn. You should come! So you can start seeing what you are made of!” Theia said as she sought their way out. “We will be just down the hall if you need us!”

“Farewell, pretty Gem, we shall see what games you like to play,” the skeptical Ferelden said over her shoulder in a foreboding tone, before she allowed Theia to take her away.

Alone once more, Olivia stared at the newly lonesome surroundings. It was whirlwind for sure. She had no idea whether or not to even trust such characters – two women, two Mages, coming out of nowhere and offering friendship with material and political clout. Part of her feared she had just made a fatal mistake. In Orlais, such short-sighted allegiance was deadly.

But what did she have to lose? Nothing. So, for that reason, she would see how far being a “pretty Gem” could take her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be familiar to some, because I originally published it on my Ao3 as an independent ficlet from either storylines. I wanted to incorporate it because I felt it an important insight into Olivia's journey as a person, Mage, and leader. I also wanted to breathe some life into her upbringing instead of having it be an abstract foreground to her character development.


	25. Troubled Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> En route to the Fallow Mire the Inquisition takes a night's rest in a small hunting village. Olivia's penchant for trouble and impatience for mediocre men becomes aggravated, and her unwise decisions cause conflict between her, her role, and a most diligent Seeker.

With the ever-worsening weather as they drew closer and out of the Frostback range and into the Marshes, the Inquisition contingent had to tread carefully towards the Mire. When they found what was suspected to be the last, mostly-healthy village before landing at camp in the marshes they took full advantage to rest and resupply. The limbs of the plague loomed over the mountain pass ahead.

It was newly nightfall when they stopped at the inn and tavern on the village main road. Olivia had ridden her horse beside the Seeker at the head of the line, taking in the sights: it looked like a hunting village, for fishing could not surely support a village this size alone in this region. The buildings were weathered but sturdy, cobblestone and wood mostly. Homes scattered around beyond the marketplace, trading stands, a large, covered communal square for vendors, and roofs of both wood and hide. The inn was only two stories but on a raised foundation to stave off flooding, and made up for in width what it lacked in height.

Olivia remembered what it was like to wander into towns with the understanding that it could only be a matter of time. “Passing through” was a modus operandi when it came to her and the girls’ survival. Mages could hide staffs and suppress only so much before what they were became common knowledge; Fereldan villages had especially become weary of traveling groups of people unarmed with weapons like swords or daggers. The absence of iron meant the presence of something far more threatening to the safety of innocent citizens, regardless of their intent for visiting. Traveling as Inquisitor, a role with little precedent beyond the histories that felt so far from her, changed that.

People half-halted in their merriment when the allies walked into the ground Tavern floor. Heads turning and drinks being sat down, the wave of attention crashed over her head and shoulders in an instant. Olivia allowed for two of Leliana’s people to make the arrangements for sleeping quarters with the head hostess while her eyes scanned the long room of faces. Mostly men, by the looks of it; middle-aged or roughed up beyond their years through hard work. Their clothes were mostly frayed tunics and coats. She couldn’t read their faces with complete accuracy, but by her estimates there was a mixture of shock, skepticism, and subtle hostility for outsiders. Out-of-towners were the easiest conduits for trouble.

“We waltzed into a party,” Sera said, standing behind the Inquisitor with bow and arrow at her back.

Olivia smirked, unhooking her traveling cape from her shoulders. “Indeed so. Should we make it a rapture?” After her words she heard Sera chuckle a bit under her breath, sounding ready for action.

“Are you honestly suggesting you spend time causing trouble here, Inquisitor?” Vivienne sneered a bit, coming to stand at her side. “The place looks a cold chill away from undergoing decomposition.”

Olivia folded her cape over her arms and felt the distinct stare the Seeker was known for hone on her face, making both sides of her position the subject of discerning eyes.

“What, can I not have fun? If you wish to seclude yourself and rest, do so. But I have a mind for some wine.” Just she finished her sentence the scouts approached them. They confirmed finally that enough rooms had been supplied, though they were double-bed suites. It was decided that Sera and the Inquisitor would take one, and Cassandra and the Enchanter in the other. Vivienne’s aversion for Sera’s general existence had not waned in the weeks since they first arrived at Haven, and the two spent most of their coexistence exchanging cold jokes and remarks. Being bed mates was not in the cards.

Olivia exchanged glances with Vivienne and they decided without words just which directions they were to respectively pursue. Vivienne nodded shallowly before seeing her way up the inn stairwell, seeming unimpressed with the infrastructure as she did her best to keep to herself.

“Do be careful, Inquisitor,” Cassandra warned, standing next to Olivia’s shoulder. The two women then faced each other, the Inquisitor shrugging.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” she asked, followed by a moment where both their expressions sunk a bit. Raising a finger, she quickly added an addendum: “You know, don’t answer that question.”

\--

An hour later, Sera and the Inquisitor had gone through two rounds of ale -- Sera had convinced her ally off of wine for the sake of a real, hair-growing beverage. After the first disgusted chokes Olivia adjusted to the dryness; the effects of alcohol tended to smooth over objections to the taste of it once enough time had been passed ingesting it. The effects were not all similar to that of wine or spirits: she felt warm and tired, two symptoms she sought to avoid above all. The one upswing was that everything seemed to be funnier and more lighthearted: everything from a crass joke to the way a door creaked open evoked comical reaction.

“You’re such a piss baby! You make that face every time you chug!” Sera laughed, patting her roughly on the back.

“I can’t help it!” Olivia said over the rumbling of the gathered crowds, “This shit tastes like...well...shit!” amused with herself she stifled another clumsy laugh, her hand to her mouth. Their knowing glances said enough, though, and they both erupted into unavoidable giggling.

For as enthusiastic as their joy was, it was curtailed the minute Olivia’s wandering eye caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a angry man yelling at one of the tavern maids. She shifted around in her seat on the bench to get a better look. He was a burly man, broad and muscular, with a full beard and shiny forehead. He was flailing an arm around as if he was giving her the what-for about something, all the while she was smiling. The smile wasn’t jovial, or genuine. It was a smile you gave when you wanted to soften a temper you were secretly at the mercy of.

Olivia’s bright eyes turned to seething anger when he swiped at her. He gripped onto her with a hand big enough to envelope over half of her forearm, capable of snapping it like a toothpick. The maid was pleading with that same smile for him to release her, pulling away timidly. He kept going and going with his spitting rant. He must have gotten the wrong drink, or his food was sour.

Sera took notice of the Inquisitor’s sudden vigilance. She followed her gaze, locking on the same problem.

“Ay, shit, what a arse-biscuit,” she sneered, “I’m gonna get in it!”

“No, Sera. Stay here. I’ll settle it,” Olivia muttered, slamming down her mug and rising to her feet. Her thoughts were still a bit fuzzy, but she still felt responsible. What good was she as a leader if she did not face issues head on?

Strutting over to the scene, she arrived at the woman’s side as she was begging for him to release her.

“Excuse me!” she said sternly, “you should release my friend at once!”

The man spat at the ground, exposing a chipped tooth in his scowl. “I don’t gotta do shit! This wench is overcharging me and I demand a refund!”

The woman shook her head, looking back at Olivia. “I did no such thing, it is really just a misunderstanding. I thought he was covering the bill of a friend!”

“Bullshit, you stupid harlot!”

His words evoked hapless wrath in Olivia’s temper. She turned to him, slow at first, and then sharp as she reached both hands back behind her and unsheathed her nimble dual blades, swiveling them one rotation as she settled into a forehand grip. Both the woman and man flinched, a gasp coming from the maid.

“What in the--”

“I said, release her.”

He cursed under his breath and shoved the girl back against the nearby table, finally letting her go. “You are a foolish little thing to be carrying around sharpened toothpicks as weapons,” he growled, standing up. As he rose he was a clear two feet taller than her at least. She was dreading it, but wasn’t sober enough to dissuade the threat.

“Who said I only carried toothpicks?” she asked, her irises flaring with fire-hued light.

The man’s friend hopped up from his chair, face constricted with anger. “A Mage bitch!”

“My Lady,” the girl came up behind her, “please do not cause yourself any trouble for me, I--”  
“Shut up, you flea-ridden wench!” the handsy man roared over them. “Let the whore finish the fights she starts!” he then leaned over, hands flat on the table, as if to further intimidate the little Lady that had crossed his path. Around them, people began to turn and watch from the corners of their eye as the petite blondie took on the giants of the establishment. A curious match-up, one would argue, and bound to be entertaining.

Olivia glared back at them, daggers at the ready as she contemplated her next move. Well, contemplated as in felt the hunger for a good fight against some despicable men, and having enough alcohol in her blood to enable her desire. When she managed a consensus in her mind she smiled, a heart chuckle erupting from her mouth. The men looked at her as if she was mad, glancing at each other with confused, foolish expressions. She got pleasure out of this: appearing dainty and meek, right before the shut down.

In the blink of an eye she raised the daggers above her head and struck them downward, hitting the excess shirtsleeves on the man’s arms and thus pinning him. He could only get out one surprised grunt before she punched him square in the right eye socket. For a tipsy little woman she know how to land one. Gritting her teeth from the pain in her knuckles, she clasped her fingers on the back of his head and slammed his face down on the table wood, cracking a dent into it. The man gurgled and groaned, the inertia too much to see his adversary straight.

She then yanked up her daggers, watching as he toppled to the ground behind him and against the wall. His friend immediately roared, rolling up his sleeves.

“Why, you little--!”

“Go ahead, Ser, announce my sins for the world!” she yelled right back, holding a blade straight toward him, the other held at her side. She began to step towards him, backing him up against another table. “Tell them how you caught the one the call the Herald of Andraste on an off day!”

His face dropped in confidence as he stumbled back onto the table, boots underneath him struggling in vain to regain a foothold. “Wh-what, h-h-how can you be--”

“Want to try my hand and find out, you sniveling excuse for a man?!”

Just as Olivia had gotten to close enough for her blade tip to start pressing against his neck, she felt hands pull the slack of her vest hood and sleeve edge. She was thrust backwards, her feet lifting off the ground. The blurriness of the fast motion made her feel slightly whisplashed.

“That is enough!” a Nevarran declared loudly, a fistful of grip on her as she stepped in between her and her would-be victim. Olivia wasn’t done with this fight, her mind flooding with resentment. Dizzily drunk or not she was not going to stop until she had proven she could be back-up for someone who had no choice but to be defenseless. The rest went by so fast: her pulling against the stronger woman who had gotten ahold of her, the sight of the two men quivering in the corner as they became smaller and smaller. The cold grip of her dagger blades.

Cassandra had pulled her into a back hall neighboring the kitchen. It smelled of cooked potatoes and herbs, and she suddenly felt a pang of hunger in her gut. When she was tossed in, she stumbled a bit for a moment before composing herself. Cornered this time by an ally, she re-sheathed her blades. When she turned back to face Cassandra she saw the look of disapproval in her eyes. It had been too long.

“What right do you have to--”  
“Inquisitor, get ahold of yourself. Are you drunk?!”

Olivia glared, placing her hands on her hips. “I had two drinks! I am but steps from sober!”

“Then why are you conducting yourself like an inebriated idiot?” Cassandra replied. Not convinced by her first answer, she pushed on Olivia’s shoulder. The Inquisitor rocked back, a swing in her step that indicated a looseness in her body. But she did not stumble or spin.

“What is your problem, Seeker? They were harassing a maid! I was giving them what they deserved!”

“You were making a fool of yourself and your allies. It is your responsibility to set an example when we are on missions.”

“I am setting an example: don’t be an asshole to women, and if you do, prepare to get punched in the face!”

“We did not come all this way for you to fall in a tavern skirmish after having too much to drink. Go to your quarters and sober up.”

Silenced by orders, Olivia folded her arms and approached her. Cassandra remained undaunted even as she got less than a foot from her, their proximity highlighting the height difference between them. The Inquisitor stared her down but with less acuity than she normally did, and that was how Cassandra knew she wasn’t 100% peak performance regardless of her ability to save face.

“Where is Sera?” Olivia muttered, a bit underwhelming considering her domineering advance.

“She is upstairs in your shared room.”

“That….that’s it?”

“Yes. What else was I to have done? She was about to compound the problem.”  
“And the problem was?”

“You, Inquisitor. Now, is there anything else?”

Olivia raised a brow, their faces close but not out of fondness. It was a standoff with a futile effort. She scrunched her mouth to one side, tapping her foot on the floor. Cassandra was like an unshakeable mountain in the face of an emboldened temper.

Running her hands through her hair, Olivia took the loss and left for the door. There was no consideration for an escort; she was clear and angry enough to ascertain what was a staircase and what was a Tavern hall. Without bringing attention to herself -- as much as possible, anyway -- she snuck up to the second floor, leaving the Seeker to be a heroism-ruiner on her own damn time.

\--

It took only two tries to find the right door, her mercy being the arrowhead sticking out from the other side. Sera was never not in the mood for target practice, especially after would-be brawls. Stomping in furiously and slamming the door behind her, Olivia growled like a girl who had just been stood up at the Soiree by her sweetheart. Sera had taken to sitting on her bed across the room, laying back with her legs up in the air.

“There you are! Done tossin’ men ‘round?!” the rogue elf called out, a burp under her breath.

“Maker, I want to set an entire roof on fire!” Olivia growled as she unbuckled her vest. “The nerve of her!” was the only remark audible throughout her slurring mumbles. Sera looked on, the reasons for her rage a bit over her head.

“Well, then, I guess you’re gonna start tossin’ women?” she asked during one of Olivia’s quiet intermissions.

“I am going to do more than toss! I’m gonna throw her…to...somewhere...one of these days. I just...want to...ugh!” she threw her breeches to the floor after having just gathered them from her ankles.

“Where you gonna want to do that after the bunch of men coming at ya?” Sera let her legs fall onto the bed as she rolled onto her stomach.

Olivia hastily slipped her night dress over her small-clothed body, flipping her hair out of it and exhaling. “What are you talking about, there were only two men!”

“Oh...well, shit.” Sera grimaced, then, and the two women stared at each other for a moment.

“What? What happened?”

“Well, you were going up a creek there for a second. The man’s lackeys were assembling behind ya while you were shoving the one against the table. The Seeker went through them like she was throwin’ sacks of potatoes around.”

Olivia froze, the look on her face as though she was trying to decide whether to be humiliated or angrier for the truth being made known. So, Cassandra did not just grab her by the nape like an unruly dog. In her short-sighted fury, Olivia had dug herself into a hole she wouldn’t have realized until it was too late. On a good day without ale in her it would have been a different story, but in this case, it was a arrow dodged. Cassandra had been an ally, backing up where she thought she was being back-up. After all this time, all this practice, she still needed people to fish her out of her trouble.

“I...I want to hurl myself into the Fade,” Olivia sighed, rubbing her face. Surrendering to her mortification she whirled around and crawled into bed, pulling the sheets over her body for refuge. As she settled in, she heard one last bittersweet remark from Sera.

“Well, if you’re gonna bother with that shit, might as well have Cassandra throw you for it."


	26. A Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the tavern skirmish, Cassandra and Olivia continue to fail in seeing eye-to-eye. Olivia's need for gratification leads to more reckless choices as the battle between her identities continues to come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Light NSFW for Sexual Content (light).

If it was one thing Seeker Pentaghast was endlessly sensitive towards, it was things that went bump in the night. A shadow cast in its movement across their room window was no exception this talent. Eyes blinking as she rose from her bed, clad in tunic shirt and breeches, her instincts provoked suspicion. Nothing and no one cloaked by the darkness of night was worth trusting, what with the people they were traveling with and the Inquisitor herself at risk. She slid out of her bed, reaching for a jacket she had left folded beside her armor. She went to the window and peered out at the tilted shingles worn and overgrown with moss. No one to be seen, nothing worth a shadow.

That changed, though, when her eyes caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure walking into the adjacent stables. It could have been a coincidence, of course: perhaps a bird had flown past, and a stable hand was doing a check. As she was about to turn away from the window her stomach sank. Twice unnerved by a gut reaction she believed it better safe than sorry. One last button fastened on her jacket before she was out and about to find out for herself.

\--

The torches that remained lit in the stable hall cast honey-colored light against the wood, and for the first time since crossing over into marshland, Olivia was warm and dry. The storm in the sky loomed but had yet to unleash its sorrows, leaving only a chilly breeze as its prelude. Down the left row, third stall down, she found her horse: a chestnut mare, sweet but high-maintenance under saddle. The one she had started calling ‘Peach,’ ever since her conversation with Cassandra. Walking past, she smiled when the horses let out a symphony of anticipatory whinnies and mumblings asking for food. The night rounds of hay had long been dished out, and her mare was merely crunching down on its remnants. Removing her draped cloak from her body Olivia went searching through a nearby trunk for a specific tool in mind above all: a bristle brush. Once she found one tucked in a pale she dusted it off the palm of her hand and saw herself through the stall door.

Peach lifted her head to greet her but was otherwise unimpressed -- Olivia had been too frequent a visitor to warrant uneasiness. Returning to her grazing, she left her rider to do whatever it is she had came for. The Inquisitor soon realized a night dress was not the most easily maneuverable in deep straw bedding, but thankfully her choice and boots would make up for it. Gathering her skirt in one arm she approached and started to go to work with the brush. The coordination in her body indicated that the tipsiness earlier in the evening had subsided.

The ache in her right-handed knuckle survived after her ordeal, though the swelling had gone down. She had lay awake in her bed rubbing and holding it to keep herself from drifting to sleep, trying to remember the simple healing spell Naomi had taught her. It hadn’t been that long but she had already forgotten it, leaving her to wait until morning for a remedy. All things considered she was lucky: punching a man like that could have broken a bone.

“How are you this evening, my sweet Peach?” Olivia whispered as she did so, long strokes spanning from the horse’s shoulder to just before her hips. “I, for one, have had a terrible time at the party. Some boys got mad because they couldn’t take a girly punch,” she smirked to herself. “I was glad to be out of there. Now I fear I’m going to have a terrible headache from that blasted ale Sera convinced me to drink.”

“It helps if you drink water and eat some form of salted meat for breakfast,” the Seeker’s voice chimed in from the Stable door. Having arrived at the scene to realize the wayward stranger was no one else but the precocious Inquisitor with a knack for insomnia, she had found her nerves both vindicated and defied.

Olivia looked over her shoulder, still working away at her horse’s coat. Seeing Cassandra’s face refilled her body with dread like a scolded child. “Have you come to be nice after humiliating me in front of all the other children in the playpen, Seeker?”

Cassandra shifted her weight onto one hip, resting a hand on the top edge of the stable door. “Inquisitor, I will not apologize for believing your stature as a leader to be more important than taking bites out of strange, drunken men.”

“Is my compassion for other women now an afterthought, too? Are we not bound to defend those who cannot help themselves?” Olivia spat back, stepping back from her horse to dust off the brush between her hands again.

“You have a fine line to walk. Your unpredictable taste for trouble does not do you any favors.”

“I am hardly unpredictable. There was a situation and I tried to resolve it; it is not my fault men like them only speak a language of brute force.” Olivia threw her arms in the air in frustration.

Cassandra stared just as fiercely in return. “Forgive me, then,” she said stiffly, her jaw slightly clenched. “It was not my intention to insult the vanity you try to pass of as modest non-conformity.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed, and she turned away sharply, recommitting to brushing through her horse’s mane. She seemed to take better care of her horse’s hair than her own.

“I have nothing left to say to you, and if I did it would surely be in the Orlesian tongue you despise so much.”

“Very well. I will concede with the hope that you understand that the space you have created for yourself will not last forever.”

“And you get to say that?” she hissed, her hands halting mid-stroke. “You, the Right Hand, the Seeker of the Chantry? You say to the ice, 'melt,' and it becomes water? Who needs magic when you have such an influence over the elements!”

“You are diverting from the truth of the matter, and I do not appreciate the implication.”

“What would that be, then? Since you know better than I.”  


“That your decisions are no longer solely yours in consequence. The more you mock the power you have assumed, the more you degrade its purpose. No matter fantasies you have of rectifying every slight that crosses your judgement, you must uphold a standard. Your allies have not assembled to be the witnesses of your reckless misadventures.”  


Olivia went still again, allowing her hands to fall. She bit down on her lip, brushing her horse’s neck again to claim some sort of saving grace. The Seeker stood by all the same, an ever-present thorn digging into her side. Understanding then that she would not walk out without some sort of definitive choice, she concluded her chore, patting her horse one final time on her cheek before turning to face her. She picked up her skirt and sorted through the mess of straw with her feet, making her way back to the stall door. She paid no mind to the Seeker’s position in front of it, slipping through and moving past her after she re-latched the lock.

“Have you nothing more to say?” Cassandra asked, watching as she went to the trunk to toss in the brush back where she had found it, the sharp thump sounding off.

With her hands free, Olivia slowly returned, gaze low and brooding. “You speak of my fantasies, Seeker, but I think the most nefarious one of all is the one you harbor, the one where you can talk down to a Mage for their inadequacy. I wonder if you save your smiles for your private moments when you get to relish in my mediocrity. Perhaps one day I will be able to stomach your lecturing about decisive action in the fact of injustice, but for now, I wish you to leave me be for once. Either you withdraw from this barn, or I do.”

Cassandra stared coldly at her, a look of slight betrayal on her face. For what, Olivia could not guess in the moment. The level of the Seeker’s fury had circled back around from bombastic arguing to foreboding silence. She took a step back, standing squarely face-to-face with her.

“By all means, Inquisitor, stay put where you are, in the company of the one living soul you do not punish for being a product of its upbringing.”

They glared at each other before Cassandra gathered her hands behind her back and left the stable for good. It was done, and Maker only knew how it would bleed into the day after. Olivia could not bear to think of it: the comments, the caustic side-eyeing. The nothingness. Cassandra had seen right through her, an ultimate indicator that she had let her in far too much. Her thoughts raced as she started taking a subconscious inventory of every conversation, every detail, as a form of proof within her own head of her miscalculation. All the while she stood by the stall door, arms folded, sucking her teeth.

The depth of her wrath would have been all, if it had not been for the echoes of scuffling in the loft above the stable floor. She looked up over her shoulder to see flickering lights through the boards. There must've been someone, a groom or soldier left on duty. She wondered if they had heard their conflict, and knew it was the Inquisitor who hid out in the barn in the early hours of the morning. A rabid desire to get even filled Olivia’s being: to grasp some sense of reckless autonomy from the clutches of her duty. It wasn’t about doing the right thing, but doing something in the first place. Something that reminded her just what she could do, what she was good for. A skill she deferred to no one for expertise.

She snuck a glance back at the barn doors and saw no one there to judge her for what she was about to do, which was walk up the spiral stairs in the back corner of the barn and up to the second story. When she did she found a door ajar and wonky in its hinges. Behind it, a young man with long hair tied in a curly ponytail and stubble on his chin. He could not be any older than 25, given soft maturity in his face as he looked up from his makeshift desk.

“My Lady,” he said, rushing to his feet and skidding the chair back loudly. He clearly had been up to something he should not have been, or at least was thinking about it. By the looks of his slight blush in his cheeks he was not expecting a woman of any shape or attitude to appear.

Olivia slowly shut the door behind her back, offering a soft smile. “No need to fret, I come in peace,” a sweetness dripping from her tongue. “I nocturnal bird told me there was a lonesome stable hand in the barn needing company, or perhaps a food from the kitchen.” The kitchen had long been closed, and the last pint of ale poured hours ago. She was no maid, but she knew the verses of such a part like clockwork.

The pale man smirked bashfully, his hands going to his hips. He was tall, a bit gangly, but capable looking. In the torch and candlelight his reddish brown hair looked almost orange. He was a country boy if she had ever seduced one, and she had many, many times.

“I am quite alright, but it is very kind of you to ask. I noticed you...agh, down with your horse?”

Olivia chuckled, stepping closer to him, her glacial pace allowing her to take in the sites and sounds of the room. It was spacious for a single cot room, with a chair in the corner with a seat cushion opposite a bed with a pelt on it, probably loaned from someone.

“Yes, that is my mare. She is very spirited in case you couldn’t tell,” she replied.

“She’s given no trouble as far as I am aware, my Lady,” he said, shaking his head. Oh, he was respectful and unassuming, how refreshing.

“What is your name?” Olivia cut to the chase, her lips left parted as her gaze flickered between his eyes and his lips. “You seem like a man to know.”  
“Uh, agh,” he chuckled, looking down at the floor with a smile, “the name is Marinus, my Lady. Marinus Coyle.”

“Quite a mouthful, isn’t that?” she said as she wiped her thumb across her lower lip as if she thoughtlessly did such things in her everyday.

“I...well, it’s a family name, you see. We pass on most everything between the generations, it’s...exhaustive, sometimes.”  
Olivia giggled, and came even closer to him, rounding the side of the desk until she stood but a couple feet from him. She sat halfway on the tabletop edge and folded her arms. He was tall, but it wasn’t hard to be taller than her.

“Marinus.” She raised a brow, arching her back. “I like it. So, Marinus, do you daydream much while up here all by your lonesome?”

Marinus shrugged, a cheeky smile on his face. The attention of a woman aware of and confident in her wiles was a rare experience. “Sometimes, my Lady. When days are slow.”

“I would, too, if given the chance. Well, I have a proposition for you, then, Marinus. If you find it disagreeable I can walk myself down those stairs and you will never see me again. However, I think it may be worth your while.”

He stood by, his face as if he had missed out on an inside joke. He was leaning into her, though, slightly but enough for her to notice and feel encouraged by it.

“A-and what would be your proposition, my Lady?” he asked in a more hushed tone, a bit more brittle with nerves.

Olivia’s tongue swung across the rim of her bottom lip, and she glanced down at the floor with a touch of coquettish flare. “You rip these clothes and daggers off my body…” her voice lucid like a siren’s as she placed a hand horizontally on his abdomen, rubbing up his side, “and you have your way with me?”

His blush returned with a vengeance as they maintained eye contact. Olivia didn’t blink or flinch a single hair out of place, oscillating warmth in her palms to demurely add to temptation. He was a most responsive body, too, stepping into her. She then slid closer to him and spread her thighs, embracing his hips.

“I…” he breathed close to her lips, “I-I would like nothing more.”

Olivia smiled fiendishly, biting her lip. “Then, say your prayers and see what a dream can truly be.” They were about to descend into lip-locked mania, but just as it seemed to be sealed fate he hesitated one last time. She blinked and stared back at him with slight confusion.

“I-I-I forgot to ask your name,” he whispered, one hand reaching for the side of her neck, the other her waist.

Hearing his good, home-grown manners again, Olivia stifled a laugh. Should she start with Her Worship, or Lady Inquisitor? Herald, perhaps? What would be the best to hear be screamed from the rafters of a village barnhouse in the middle of the Fereldan marshlands? Maybe she should tell him her full birth name and provide a sweet reminder to her compatriots that she was actually a person before she was fable. She had thought of daring to do so before, when she was last running amok with her erotic charms with strangers: let the whole of Ferelden scream her Orlesian surname so loud that the Capitol could have their morning gossip fodder.

“If you do right by me tonight, Marinus,” she said as she snuck a hand to grasp the front of his breeches where his already firming cock anticipating her, “any name would do. If you don’t mind, all I ask is you allow me to keep my gloves on for the sake of the cold.”

He lingered his lips against hers, eyes drifting to close. “You could allow me to keep them warm,” he said with a slyly. So he did have some charm and initiative, for being so shy. Olivia smirked and bit at his lower lip, gently tugging back. She pressed deeper on her hold on his breeches, thighs clutching tighter around his hips. That was enough for him to forget the thought he was on completely, kissing hotly and messily as if they were lovers reuniting after some romantic escapade.

The flux of arousal in her body danced with her magic, and she felt the interconnected energies of her own power and the anchor begin to go back and forth in tandem. In its unspoken and unseen presence, she had her reason to not forsake her gloves. No simple man’s hunger for sex could quell the unnerving sight of a woman with a green, slightly glowing palm reaching out for a certain limb of his body. Olivia didn’t need to test that hypothesis to know it’d be best for all if the gloves were the one thing that didn’t come off. To be frank, she did not think it the only article of clothing that would stay on.

It wasn’t long before he had picked her up and carried her to the corner cot with blankets and pelts awaiting them. Hands sliding up her night dress skirt, the sensation she hungered for most of all began to grow: her mind going increasingly blank, the automation of her tricks taking hold. Pulling his shirt over his head, revealing his muscled chest and arms more impressive than they first appeared. Her palms rubbed and shifted everywhere, taking in the feel of every inch of skin she could while he went to work ripping off her jacket. He wandered his mouth to her neck and she rolled her eyes closed, the hot breath against her skin sending a shiver down her spine. Her fingernails braced against his back, encouraging him as his hips started to grind into hers.

She would prove to whatever powers watching her in both heaven and elsewhere just how diverted and distorted she could become.


	27. Sickly Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after her sordid tryst with the stable boy lands Olivia not farther from where she started: sleep-deprived, stressed, and in need of apothecary specialties.

It had been too long since Olivia had the warm body of another person to keep her company during another sleepless night. Alas, she kept herself from truly melting into it.

When dawn broke, she was laying on his chest and playing with her own hair. But whereas Marinus Coyle wanted to linger on the romantics of the situation, Olivia’s only constraint was manners: saying good-morning and thank-you before hopping off of him to find her clothes. He seemed rather dismayed at the sight of her detachment, but lucky for her he was not a drooling puppy wanting more than what he could have. Stealing a blanket to wrap around her body with only a night dress to shield her from the morning cold she had one last inquiry for the young man, and that was the nearest open Apothecary shop.

“Across the street. They don’t usually open for another hour, but they should be in preparing for the day,” he said, rising to a seated position on the edge of his cot.

Olivia smiled and ran a hand through her tangled hair. “Splendid. Thank you, Marinus, but I have to go as all dreams do. ‘Twas a pleasure,” she said in a tired morning voice, her Orlesian accent slipping through. She did not mince anymore feelings as she made her way through the door and down the stairs. The stables were quiet, yet to be consumed by morning chores and departing patrons. Once outside and in the street, she scanned the line of mercantile cottages until she noticed an botanically-themed emblem hung out in front of a window. The shop looked like her best bet on this most disorganized morning.

A man came forward at the sound of her tapping on the glass, a strange but beautiful blonde woman wearing a night dress and blanket over her shoulders. He was bitterly confused as he opened the door in both expression and body language.

“We do not open for another hour,” the man grumbled, smacking lips together as if he were a cow regurgitating its meal.

Olivia stepped closer and bowed her head apologetically. “I understand, Ser, but I am traveling this morning and am need of something to still my stomach. You wouldn’t happen to have a spoonful of something to spare?”

The man, with his balding head and cotton shirt untucked, remained still for a moment as he stared her down. He rolled his eyes and swallowed his generous mouthful.

“Who is at the door, Humphrey?!” a woman called from behind him.

“Oh, just another Harlot looking to keep herself out of trouble,” he called back, letting the door slide closed but not completely as he vanished. All she could hear were begrudged feet stomping across a wood panel floor as she put her curved index finger to her mouth. Across land and sea, there were two kinds of people that could always be trusted to know the true intentions of people: Tavern hostesses and apothecaries. Apothecaries, though, were unfortunately tasked with having to care.

The sting of being so bluntly regarded had long left Olivia’s nerves: she was here with a goal, and all flack she would endure was simply collateral damage. After a few minutes the man returned with a small vial, a paper label half-curled. The liquid was an ember brown color like dirty water -- that was how Olivia knew he had spared the good stuff.

“Maker, save your soul,” he groaned as he placed it in her hand, shutting the door.

Olivia chuckled quietly; the irony of her life the last twenty-four hours had not been lost on her. Walking back to the inn across the way she held her saving grace clutched to her chest beneath the borrowed blanket, taking one last look at the stables as she neared the front entryway. It had been fun, surely, but she would be careful to not take away any souvenirs besides her satiated libido and hatred of beer.

Witherstalk was good for such precautions.

\--

Sneaking back into her room Olivia found Sera still snoring in her contorted shape, sheets and pillows disheveled. She made quick work of her morning routine, letting her night dress fall to the floor along with the blanket and digging into a small trunk of clothes that had been hauled up. All she would need is new underclothes for her armor and she would be set. All the while, the bottle of witherstalk was on the side table.

She got as far as her belt when Sera snored herself awake, flinching upright with one eye covered in hair.

“Ahh! Maker’s tits,” she groaned as she rubbed her face. “When did you sneak in?”

“I spent the night in the stables with the horses,” Olivia replied, fastening a buckle. “You should get ready, we will be leaving soon.”

“I don’t need to get ready, I slept in my clothes,” she huffed, sliding lazily out of the tangled sheets. “You’re not the only one who’s ready for anythin.’”

Olivia took a shallow breath as she buttoned up her undershirt. Prepared for anything and simply flying by the seat of your pants were hardly the same thing. As Sera went about finding her weapons and satchel bag the Inquisitor slid into her armor, trying her hardest to expedite the departure in every little way she could. She stared into space anxiously as her hands cinched up buckles and straps. Her attitude was a bit unnerving for her ally who had spent many a night abroad at this point sharing sleeping quarters. Before she could inquire as to why, there was a knock on the door.

“Aye, can't you tell the door is shut for a reason?!” Sera hollered, not one for formalities.

The door opened against Sera's wishes, revealing Vivienne of all people, fully dressed with staff at her back. Clearly she did not have a morning worth lingering on.

“My dear Inquisitor, our people are gathered downstairs. Are you about done imagining a simple country life for yourself?”

Olivia looked back at her, tightening one final strap. “Yes, just give me a moment more to put my hair up.”

“Oh, well, with the way you lack a comb that should be but a breath or two.” Vivienne placed a hand on her hip staring back at Sera momentarily as the two shared skeptical looks. The connection was brief, before the Enchanter took to scanning the room. Her eyes fixated on a most peculiar vial all by its lonesome on the table; its mystery was no match for her mental acuity.

“By all the Maker’s deeds, is that a dose of witherstalk extract I spy at your bedside, Inqui--”

“Shh!” Olivia turned around and waved her hands, her face contorted by embarrassment. Vivienne, quite unused to being treated thus, stood back with alarm. As Olivia rushed past her to shut the door behind them, she waited for an explanation she was surely deserving off after being so bluntly silenced.

“It...It is witherstalk…” Olivia mumbled, hunched as she crept back to her bed. “But as far as everyone else outside of this room is concerned it is a tonic for my stomach.”

Vivienne folded her arms, raising a brow of skepticism. “You have a use for witherstalk extract?”

Sera had been watching with widened eyes, and only then did it click with singular clarity just what was afoot. She sat back on her bed, bouncing up and down from the inertia. “You got lucky?!”

“Yes! I--” Olivia calmed herself, stifling the urge to yell, “I did. I...had a moment of irrational conduct last night and I am too far from my last bleed to feel confident that it won’t...could….you know…”

“Oh, this is rich,” Sera smirked, “who was it? Was it the potato man?!”

At that point Vivienne and Olivia both looked to Sera with fingers on their mouths signaling her to lower her exuberant voice. Vivienne shook her head in disapproval, then turned her attention back on the Inquisitor blushing in the corner.

“My dear, when you made your reputation known, it did not occur to me that you would use it as a return to calamity. Surely you have enough to fill your schedule with without trifling with tempestuous violence.”

“It’s not like that,” Olivia groaned softly, finding a strand of scarf fabric from her open trunk and pulling her hair out of her face in preparation to tie it. “There was no money exchanged and he’s still very much alive. It was impulsive and it is over with.”

The three women exchanged side-eyeing amongst themselves. Who would have guessed such a trifecta of claims would come from Olivia’s mouth and be completely unironic. Her anxiety filled the air around them like a subtle static wave, her defensiveness ready for any and all interrogation that had yet to happen.

“So, why you keepin’ it hush-hush?” Sera asked as she rose to her feet.

Vivienne hummed a smug tune under her throat, pacing the floor between the opposite beds. The heels of her boots clicking a sumptuous rhythm against the flooring. “Something tells me our Inquisitor is evading the wrath of a most integrous Seeker.”

“That! Is...out of the question,” Olivia huffed, reaching back to grab the vial. Enough fun had been enjoyed at her expense for her not to be drinking a mouthful of bitter, wretched witherstalk and be done with it. Uncorking the bottle she plugged her nose and chucked the contents back like a shot of something strong. Her face twisted as she struggled triumphantly to swallow. The glass bottle slammed onto the table and she growled with rigor once her mouth was clean.

Her companions both looked skeptical in their own ways: Sera with a feisty furrowed brow, and Vivienne with her ambivalence. The awkward moment of silence only exacerbated her brewing panic in her pulse.

“Look, the last thing I need is everyone chasing after me to sew-over the crotch of my breeches because I am supposed to be something I am not. I need you both to be discrete, and pretend this never happened, until I can...I don’t know, slip it into conversation with the Ambassador. I do not need the Seeker on my back anymore than she is now. Not for this mission, not after last night. Please?”

After a pause, the Enchanter and rogue shared a knowing glance between each other -- a rare moment of consensus.

“Fine, dear, it is your personal life that is cooking rotisserie over the fire, anyways. Let it be yours to burn beyond recognition.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Sera exhaled, tucking the bow at her back. “Good luck covering up the burps from that wilt-stock, though. Nasty stuff that is.”

As if by clockwork, Olivia’s stomach grumbled in irritation. She placed her hand on her abdomen and rolled her eyes shut, sighing with dread. So, the supposed stomach problems she feigned at the Apothecary as a loose alibi would turn into a self-fulfilled prophecy. Wonderful. 

“Mm, yes, that will be inconvenient, as will the rotten smell on your breath. You will not be invited into my carriage when you prove nauseated by your ride, Inquisitor.”  
Olivia grit her teeth. “No, Vivienne, no need to worry. I will promptly just walk into the lake and submerge myself from the mortification.”

“Darling, at least it would bathe that head of hair you keep insisting is meant to be that drily disarrayed.”

\--

The overcast sky cast a consuming shadow over the village, but such gloom was par for the course in this region. Olivia noticed just how congenial the villagers seemed to be despite the morose quality of their environment, as she slipped her cowl hood over her head of tightly-pinned braids out on the porch. No laughter or uproarious conversations, but there were smiles, arms clasped together while walking, children skipping alongside their parents. If one could carve out a sufficient life and find happiness even in this place, then all things seemed a little more possible. That silver lining was a comfort even as she wished to leave this place and its knack for humiliation on her part behind.

She spotted her horse tied loosely to a post beside the wagons, a breath of relief that she wouldn’t have to encounter the stable boy. It had been a little less than a half an hour since she downed the extract and her stomach neither improved or worsened, but the hours-long ride ahead weighed heavily on her mind. To her surprise, though, the stress of seeing Cassandra had yet to induce itself.

A scout approached her as she made her way to her mare, walking close to her side.

“Inquisitor, all reports say no present danger through the first half of the pass. We received a Raven from Lieutenant Harding, the weather is unsavory but manageable. We should be landing by mid-afternoon, provided our pace stays consistent.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed as she slipped on her riding gloves. “Yes, splendid. Thank you Foster. I want us to be up and out within the next five minutes.”

“Yes, my Lady, of course.”

Olivia rolled her shoulders, stretching out a bit in preparation for travel. Her mare blew a snort of air through her nose when she arrived at her side, head jerking upwards. A few calm words and a gentle hand on her neck settled her down enough, and Olivia promptly tossed the reins over her head and slipped her boot in the stirrup. With one decent thrust upward she was up and over, securing her feet and her hold on the reins. She looked on as both Sera and Vivienne secured their respective traveling positions: Vivienne taking to the carriage cab and Sera hopping onto the wagon bench beside the driver.

What she was careful not to stare too bluntly at, however, was the look of Seeker Pentaghast crossing the street from the line of market stands, finding her own horse and mounting with what looked to be a round fruit in her hand. Breakfast of champions, perhaps. Or aggravating snobs. Whichever.

“Are we ready?!” Olivia called out from the corner of her hood. The Seeker rode up alongside her, a Scout sounded off an affirming “Aye!” from the back wagon.

Just as she was about to wave her hand to move the group onwards, a woman burst out the tavern doors gripping her skirts, hand clasped around something small. She rushed over to Olivia’s horse, spooking her into a side-step.

“My Lady, you forgot something!” she proclaimed, holding out her underhanded fist. Olivia took a moment to compose her mare, looking down at the freckle-faced maiden with confusion. She was sure she packed absolutely everything, she hadn’t even brought much inside to begin with. Nevertheless she held out her hand, confused to see what was worth so much fuss. The maid opened her hand, and the empty glass vial fell from her palm into the Inquisitors.

Olivia’s heart sank with embarrassment even though a glass bottle was anything but a tattle-tale. As the girl rushed back into the inn with only a quick curtsy as a farewell, Olivia sat upright in her saddle and immediately tucked the glass into her vest pocket. She would have to destroy it later, or re-purpose it beyond recognition of its original use.

“Is everything alright?” the Seeker curtly inquired, hands resting criss-cross on the front of her saddle.

Olivia looked straight ahead, not bothering with reassuring eye contact. “Uh, um, it’s fine, I left something behind on accident.” Twisting around to look back at her traveling party she commenced her signaling to get a move on. The sooner she could leave this village behind, a tiny speck of relevance in the background, the better.

\--

The two of them proved reticent leaders, the sound of hooves trudging along the only audible transgression between them for the first hour of the journey. Had Olivia not incurred the misery of an uneasy stomach she may have been inclined to care, but even that was a slim chance given her bruised ego. In return she expected nothing from Cassandra, who’s glare remained straight for the majority of the time. It wasn’t until the Inquisitor coughed into her hand that words were uttered.

“What is that odor?” Cassandra asked, scanning either side of their path. Olivia went pale, remembering Vivienne’s harsh comment about her breath.

“Perhaps plague?” she retorted, keeping her attention on the road.

“I wouldn’t expect the smell to carry through the pass with no considerable wind.”

“Well then maybe it...uh,” Olivia cleared her throat, tilting her head away from the Seeker. “Maybe it doesn’t need wind at all, and it is simply that potent.”

Cassandra furrowed a brow, turning her head to face her. “Inquisitor, are you sure you are alright?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then what exactly is the matter?”

Olivia rolled her lips, her stomach churning with what were the prelude pains to cramps in her lower abdomen. Wonderful, she thought, just another pain to endure on this voyage. All this to ensure that a small chance of conception was not possible. She would be livid if the extract proved faulty.

“I’m still upset about last night,” she answered curtly, “and I do not with to talk. Please leave m--Oh, Maker,” her answer cut off as she threw up her guts. She leaned off the side, belly against the side of her pommel as the consequences of her actions took a turn for the gross. Lucky for the Inquisitor, consuming nothing but a witherstalk dose and some water meant she had little to lose. Her coughing and choking made up for it in terms of cringe-worthy activity.

Behind her Scouts and Troops winced and looked away . All except for Sera, who stifled a laugh as she leaned back on the bench, arms behind her head. “That is why you eat something with that crud,” she said aloud to a confused wagon driver.  


Cassandra reached a hand across and pulling at Olivia’s horse’s rein. “Inquisitor, are you ill?!”

Spitting up the last of it, Olivia waved a hand over her shoulder as she felt her horse jerk to a half-halt. “No, no! Just angry!” she grumbled, clearing her throat.

“Stop being ridiculous,” Cassandra said with a sharp tongue, grabbing her canteen from her saddlebag. Grumblings of slurred and nauseated Orlesian sounded off as she unfastened the cork. Olivia finally got enough breath in her chest to wipe her mouth with the back of her glove sleeve, a the trail of disgusting brown bile she left in her wake. Great, all that sneaking and she couldn’t even keep the damn stuff down. Now she had to do something ludicrous like pray.

“Ugh, sod it,” she spat again, leaning upright in her saddle as much as she could manage. Her rise was greeted with an outstretched canteen of water from the Seeker. She kept her eyes low as she took it from her.

“Aren’t you scared you’re gonna catch whatever it is I’ve got?” she said bitterly, holding it to her chest.

Cassandra smirked drily, adjusting her seat. “You say that as if you would be sorry for it.”

Olivia closed her eyes, her lightheadedness coming in waves. With her remaining fortitude she took a large swig of water. Washing down the sour burn in her throat made everything else slightly more bearable. After that she held onto it for a moment, trying her best not to get sicker from the motions of her horse’s gate underneath her.

“I mean it, I’m still angry. This is just an unfortunate symptom of my...remarkable…” Olivia burped up a little mid-sentence, in a glorious show of grace in illness, “...unyielding wrath.”

"Indeed. Unyielding, just like your stomach, evidently.”

For the first time that day Olivia looked upon the Seeker blatantly with her own eyes. Her glance was returned, Cassandra’s expression harder to read than most anything she could think of. She was sure not to give an inch either as she held the canteen back out to her. Cassandra promptly shook her head once.

“Keep it.”

And so, the voyage persisted, and no banter or discourse would be enacted to make it go by faster. Not this time.


	28. The Miring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two and a half weeks pass since the stop at the Village, and the Inquisitor and her allies have accomplished much in the forsaken Fallow Mire. The night before their departure back to Skyhold Olivia decides to be honest with Cassandra, and the dare backfires on her own insecurities.

The Avaar challenger who had taken the missing troops hostage, a tall and bulky son of a Chief, proved less mouthy after battling the Inquisitor. Although she was weary in her growing powers Olivia proved capable of defeating a one-on-one adversary for the first time using only her abilities as a Mage. Afterward she couldn’t help but wish Solas had been there; even though their relationship as mentor/mentee had waned, she would have liked to see his smugly approving face when she relied on her own imbued talents rather than dual-blades.

Two and a half weeks passed in the Fallow Mire after the missing troops were found and rescued from captivity. Most of it was spent establishing camps in the region. Despite there being only three to set up, cutting down the throngs of undead, Avaar nomads, and bandits prolonged the initiative. Amidst it all the rain, smell of death, and dreary atmosphere never became truly comfortable for Olivia and her allies. It was all-too-easy to believe one was in a flooded mass grave rather than marshlands. To busy herself and be useful, she spent time whilst ‘scouting’ to visit the abandoned cottages, scouring for any trace of life behind boarded windows and doors. Only a few scattered survivors yet lived, and were immediately taken into custody for food, protection, and transportation elsewhere. A couple of them, grateful to the Inquisition and its leader for salvation, elected to enlist instead.

With their numbers fortified and perils kept at bay, the night before departure felt like genuine progress. For once the evening did not harbor a storm or flash flood to deal with, leaving the allies and troops to accomplish some form of rest.

On this night Olivia chose to make good on an end that had remained untied during their time there. As soon as the pot of soup was cooked above the firepit in the heart of their camp, she poured two bowls full of it and went on a one-woman crusade of sorts: trekking to the outskirts of camp where a scouting post constructed of wood resided. Two torches hung on the tall support beams made it into a beacon of sorts, and easier to track down. Reaching the top of the stairs onto the raised platform she found the Seeker sitting up against the panel rail. She found who she was looking for.

“You know, my Father always used to say that a warrior unwilling to do what they order others to do is merely a God without a mirror,” Olivia greeted, holding out the bowl of brown, mud-textured soup.

Cassandra, with arms folded against her armored chest, side-eyed the Inquisitor and her unorthodox approach to pleasantries. “And how may that follow?” she asked, taking the bowl from her hand and holding it up to her chin, the steam emanating onto her chilled face somewhat shrouded in her hood.

Olivia smiled and sat up on the rail beside her, holding her own bowl on her lap. “They have forgotten that their subordinates are made in their image, their sacrifices and struggles not unlike their creator.”

Cassandra huffed air softly through her nose. “Your father sounds most wise.”

“He was,” Olivia replied, before putting the rim of her bowl to her lips and sipping. “He died when I was seventeen.”

“Oh. I am sorry,” the Seeker looked ahead at the sullen horizon of water, reeds, and fog. Her face was one of polite confusion, wondering just why Olivia had chosen this approach to their first honest conversation since the village.

For a few minutes the women took in the sounds of the marshes: the bugs screeching, toads croaking, waters shifting on eroding sediment. It distracted from the sour taste of their meal. Olivia wouldn’t complain, though: she had only started to stomach regular meals a week ago, the witherstalk extract clearly not agreeing with her. Whether it was a bad batch or knock-off, she didn’t know for certain. She could only hope the stress and activity of her time in the Mire would do the job of ensuring infertility.

“I did not have the chance to say it, but thank you for covering me during that skirmish by the south dock,” Cassandra broke the quiet, taking another sip.

“Oh, um,” Olivia cleared her throat of the milky congestion the soup caused, “any time.” She heard the Seeker smirk. Ever-so-slightly, but it was there.

“Have you come to feign congeniality with me?”

Olivia raised her brow and shook her head. “No, on the contrary I came to yell my head off at you for daring to take a double-shift on watch. How dare you, Seeker, be so committed?”

“I am sure if you detail your complaints in your reports they will rightfully join the pile on the wagon you spoke of,” Cassandra mused, finishing her last mouthful like she was ingesting bitter medicine.

Olivia chuckled, dimples on her cheeks exposing themselves as she looked away. “I mean you no harm, Seeker. I wished to check on you. You can search me for knives and poisons if you feel concerned enough.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“It would liven up this place a bit if people started wagging tongues about the Seeker and Inquisitor getting familiar with each other while on watch, even if it was for the fear of duplicitous assassination.”

Cassandra looked back at her, her dark eyes conveying their skeptic humoring. She placed her own bowl on the railing, done with the meal for now.

“While that is...tempting, I will have to decline.”

Olivia turned back to her, and offered a grin. “And thus I will leave my broken heart enmeshed in the romantic scenery of the Fallow Mire.”

Cassandra stifled a chuckle, folding her arms again in the cold night air. “You get amusement out of provoking me. I must admit it is a rare occasion where someone dares to tempt my temper. Besides Varric, of course.”

Olivia bit the side of her lower lip as she smiled, rubbing her hands together to stimulate some warmth. “Are you yielding to your reputation, then?”

“It is no secret that I am blunt and hard-headed, Inquisitor. When that combines with leadership and being a woman, the reaction is hardly a surprise.”

“Yes, but, is that how you wish to identify?”

“If you must know, yes. I have been this way the majority of my life. I see no sense in pretending to be someone who is placating to leadership and subordinates alike. That is not the conduct of someone who is capable of the role they fill, but merely one who is able to appease those in control of bestowing the role in the first place.”

Olivia pursed her lips, nodding in concession. The weeks of fighting and arduous work had softened the Inquisitor’s need for isolation. Nothing broke your spirit of solitude like killing things and people from dawn until dusk, to go to bed without sleep and see their faces like refracted light on marble walls. The sounds they made and their eyes losing their light. For every inch Olivia felt more capable, she also felt more dangerous. For another passing minute they watched over the landscape, no words exchanged.

“Cassandra, there are two confessions I have for you,” she said at last, a soreness in her tone that broke from her playful demeanor before.

The Seeker glanced at her from her periphery, scuffing a boot heel against the wood. She did not respond, but rather left the floor open to her.

“The first is that I am apologetic for the way I behaved at the village. While I am not ashamed of why I did what I did, I must admit that my anger was partially due to my pride and not my convictions. I was unduly spiteful, and for that I am sorry.”

Cassandra’s furrowed brow softened along with her jaw, two tension points for her that did not commonly cede their strength. Two and a half weeks of fighting alongside the Inquisitor for better or worse had made the village incident feel irrelevant, if not annoying to remember. However, the hurt was real, and the words Olivia had for her did not shake off easily. She was right to call them what they were.

Olivia took a breath, keeping her eyes locked on the horizon for fear of being discouraged by whatever facial expression Cassandra wore. “The second is the morning after that, when I was sick on the road...I was sick from witherstalk extract, which I had foolishly taken on an empty stomach in order to prevent...consequences.”

“Consequences?” Cassandra finally engaged.

The Inquisitor’s chest tensed with air. “I...I had a tryst with a stable boy that night. After you left, I...I found him and seduced him. It was a less-than-ideal choice, but I am not ashamed of it. I only wanted to do something that was for myself, and not under scrutiny by someone else.”

It was then Cassandra leaned away from the railing, standing on her own two feet. Her arms stayed folded, but she faced her head on otherwise with diligence. “So you slept with a stranger for the sake of ‘yourself’?”

“Yes, I did. Is that so obscure for you?”

“Inquisitor, you endangered yourself and your allies by making yourself susceptible. What would have happened if he had become violent and you were forced to protect yourself? How would you have resolved it and remained innocent?”

“I said it was not the ideal choice, Cassandra,” Olivia replied, a hiss of defensiveness in her voice, “I know what I did.”

“Do you? Your actions and your vitriol in the face of criticism tells me otherwise.”

“Perhaps if you stopped the downpour of your criticism for once and acknowledge that I am someone who is capable of being impulsive and insightful in my choices, you wouldn’t treat me as though I am a wayward idiot.”

“And perhaps if you ceased this war you have with your responsibilities and your own individual need for gratification you would know why I am so critical.”

“Men have sex all the time, in the military and elsewhere. Why is it my duty as a woman to uphold a perfect image of shining virtue?”

“No man here has done what you have, Inquisitor. You bend the laws of what could be possible, both magic and otherwise, and that conjures risk. I would think you of all people would reject comparison to their unjustly enriched liberties.”

Olivia bit down on the inside of her cheek and turned her back to Cassandra, looking out towards the left side of the outpost. Her gaze was on the land but her mind was anywhere but present. She did not expect for Cassandra to be so careful with her anger. For some reason she thought this would either turn into another bombastic fight, or another quiet, foreboding rift between them. She had not prepared herself for this, and it was making her walls start to crack. Feeling Cassandra’s sobering glare at her neck, she swallowed stiffly.

“Is this where you turn away and order me to withdraw from your presence?” Cassandra egged on.

“No.”

“Then what is it you have left to say?”

Olivia sighed, and pivoted slowly on her hip, facing her again. “I said I regretted the spite with which I made my choices, and I do. Now, Seeker, you have to do the unfortunate thing of either forgiving me, or holding it against me for all time. Either way, just know it took me swallowing enough pride to drown a mountain.”

The Seeker stared back, unwavering. Olivia’s hazel eyes glowed subtly but not like they did when she was intemperate or excited. In an odd way, it almost came across as indicating sincerity: as if their slight glow was the mediated balance between her powers and her humanity. She exhaled and lowered her chin in disarmament.

“You test my patience,” she admitted a bit coldly, but not for the sake of disdain. It was a tired kind of hostility, like when something you cared about just wasn’t clicking.

The scowl on her face, however, did not assuage the Inquisitor’s fears. Olivia let her arms fall to her sides, palms against her hips.

“And you test mine.”

“On what grounds do I do so beyond fulfilling my duties to the Inquisition and you?”

Olivia scoffed. “Cassandra, you are rigid. You make feel as though an inch of good faith can be ruined with one lapse in judgment. Is that fulfilling a duty or waiting for someone to fail?”

“It is not my secret desire that you fail, Inquisitor, and if it did I would not be here. Everything I have done has been to ensure my part in the Inquisition’s viability, and that is irrevocably connected to yours as our leader.”

Olivia’s eyes widened a bit, and her hands went to her hips. “Leaders do not simply grow from challenges and criticism, they grow from kindness, empathy, trust.”

“You have no right to criticize me when y--”

“I know, Seeker! I know, alright? I know I am just as implicated by my words as you. I am not simply speaking them into existence for your sake. I am trying…” overwhelmed suddenly, Olivia cut herself off and stepped to the side. A second to collect herself before her passion ran away with her tongue, and she was able to finish her statement:

“I am trying.”  


The atmosphere shifted, then, and the wrathful look on Cassandra’s face eroded to one of torn sympathy. Their polar personalities shared one common conjunction, and that was the struggle to bend and not break beyond their boundaries of comfort when the circumstances called for it. Pride that was built on conviction and not the need for artifice. As the smoke cleared the battlefield between them, Olivia assessed the damage: believing she had done more harm for herself and her alliance with the person who championed her rise regardless of personal agreement, a retreat became the best option.

“You know, I’m just...I’m just going to go.” She then went for the bowls she had brought, gathering one in each hand as she rushed. All the while Cassandra looked on with alarm at her sudden detour. She would leave after all, just as she was about to be the most forthright she had been in her company.

Just as Olivia stepped onto the first stair, Cassandra reached and placed a hand on her shoulder. The feeling stopped her dead in her tracks but she did not look back at her.

“Stay, Inquisitor.” Cassandra’s voice was stern, but not angry.

For a fleeting moment she was convinced, but her doubts only gave so much leeway. Then there was the feeling of her hand on her shoulder -- not the first time she had done this, but for some reason it felt different. That unnerved her. She rolled her shoulder out of its grasp, placing one bowl into the other between both her hands.

“I’ll be back in two hours to switch off with you. Be safe, Seeker,” she said finally, blinking her eyes to refocus on the path before her. Then she was off, back to camp. She could feel it: the slight, humming shiver of knowing the conversation that could have, should have happened, and the person left behind would be bothered by it. Just like Olivia would be, for no other reason that just because.

\--

“Darling! You’ve returned. How did it go?” Vivienne asked as soon as Olivia was in earshot, anxiously smacking the bowls down on the bench beside the fire pit.

“How did what go?” Olivia countered, rubbing her hands over her put-up hair. “I was just bringing supper.”

“I meant the whole ‘be honest’ gag you and Sera have been debating between yourselves the past two weeks behind the Seeker’s back.” Vivienne walked closer, dressed in finely-tailored resting clothes fit for a Duchess capable of luxurious murder. “I assumed with the way you looked on your way out, pale as a sheet and twice as flimsy, you’d decided to act on it.”

Olivia sighed, not sure whether she wanted to crawl out of her skin or cast herself on the fire.

“I talked to her, and that is all. There was nothing...extraordinary about it,” she muttered, rubbing her arm. “In any case, I should really be off to bed.” Her lying about sleep or bedtime was quickly getting old among Inquisition allies, who all understood by that point that their leader was a sworn insomniac. Vivienne eyed her, clearly taking in every ounce of frustration Olivia oozed.

“Bed for the sleepless? Sounds riveting,” Vivienne smirked, tilting her head. “I suppose we do have an early departure tomorrow.”

“Exactly. Sleep well, Madame, but I really must be off.”

“Take care, my dear. You never know what you bring into bed with you when you’re not careful to dust off your feet.”

Olivia had turned to leave, but she peeked over her shoulder a final time after hearing Vivienne’s parting warning. The two Mages eyes’ locked, and Olivia was once again visible through her crumbling veneer of indifference. It seemed as though the floor beneath her was crumbling by the second, leaving her without solid ground to stand on.

She nodded quickly and sent herself off to her shared tent with Sera. As she walked she realized an all-too-rare sensation had enveloped her: the desire to rest, to sleep, and be done with the waking world for a change. The highlight reel of voices and words sped through her mind: Cassandra’s displeasure, the look in her eyes when she argued. Olivia daring to say the words and the details she kept so close to her chest, being reckless once again with her truth. When she came clean almost two months ago to being a Rebel, Temptress Mage she thought that would be the end of her secretive torment.

Stepping into her tent and going directly onto her knees on her cot, burying her face in her hands, she had the bittersweet epiphany that it was not over. For as long as she would struggle with the notion of being seen, and being judged, she would always dance in and out of people’s spotlights on her. Vivienne's words were an ominous statement to make towards a woman bent on secluding herself. Olivia’s bed was a haunted one already, full of limbs and mouths of bodies she let inside her. Friends deemed trustworthy enough to witness her night terrors, gone and beyond her reach. Even still they stalked, as she was stuck with a tent in the Mire as her physical and emotional sanctuary with thin walls and soaked ground beneath her.

A few stray tears fell from her otherwise calm eyes, the symptom of an overwhelmed heart. Tomorrow they would take off back to Skyhold. They would be somewhere with doors, windows, and locks. Somewhere she could make herself busy and be elusive again if she wanted to -- or could she?

She sat there in the stillness for a while, posture slouched over her folded lap. _Inquisitor, stay,_ the Seeker asked. Stay and continue, don’t run. Don’t disengage. Stop being ridiculous. Olivia brought so many voices into the sheets with her that night. Some by invitation, others from no longer being able to stifle their echo.


	29. Aesthetic Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia returns to Skyhold with surprises awaiting her. Her discussions with Leliana and Josephine compound the expectations on her shoulders to be both true to herself and to the Game that awaits her turn.

The Ambassador’s greeting when the Inquisitor and her allies returned to Skyhold was most suspicious; nothing unnerved a tired and saddle-sore Inquisitor quite like the smug personality of a clever Antivan diplomat. First off, of course, was the tour of the Great Hall and the improvements made in the weeks she had been gone. New tapestries, tables, and chairs adorned the space, as well as a proper throne that intimidated Olivia the second she realized it was intended for her. Fretfulness aside, it was easy to feel like all things were under control with Josephine to articulate them. After listing off the rough gist of developments in Olivia’s absence, Lady Montilyet ended her recitation of reports with a playful smile.

“You will also find your quarters to have been vastly improved, Your Worship. Among other things…” she teased, checking off some notes on her clipboard.

Olivia tilted her chin, sliding off her riding gloves as they finished surveying the renovation results in the Great Hall. “Other things? Should I be afraid, Ambassador?”

“Not at all, Inquisitor. Just...some long-awaited results on a project of ours. I think you will find it most gratifying after your mission in the Marshes. Be sure to visit your quarters and check back with me after you are done surveying the fruits of our labor. They will be needed for some important upcoming engagements.”

Walking up the length of stairs and through the second door a half hour after that conversation, the first thing Olivia noticed was that the air smelled different. The heavy touch of dust and dander had been aired out and replaced with floral incense, noticeable but not overbearing. Coming to the top of the stairway she saw once and for all the surprise the Ambassador had in store.  


All the boxes and crates she had left behind for the Mire were unpacked and gone. In their place were furnishings, a rug in the center of the floor, and a bed. The couch she had borrowed was replaced with a bigger one, contemporary in design. The opposite corner of the room lined with bookshelves which were stocked almost to the brim with books, tomes, and scrolls. They were accompanied by a desk complete with reports stacked beside a quill and ink. Candles properly stocked and ready for use. In consideration of Olivia’s outlined tastes the decor shared matching colors of black, grey, and a hint of merlot represented in the little touches. The loveseat placed up against the stairwell had a black fur throw blanket that looked positively irresistible in its plushness. The whole scene looked like some gothic opera stage translated into private quarters: just how Olivia liked it.  


But that was not all that had been arranged for the Inquisitor’s return. As if modeled after a shop in the Capitol, several mannequins were positioned around the center of the room. Draped on them were gowns and two-piece outfits of various styles, designs, and purposes. They headlined the plethora of duties Olivia would be expected to assume, not just in the battlefield, but in the ballroom, council room, and beyond.  


Olivia stood still in the corner for a while, overwhelmed by the onslaught of change. Josephine had outdone herself this time; the challenge the Inquisitor posed in her peculiar style was no match for her knack for getting results.  


“Maker…” she mumbled, rocking her weight forward as she stepped closer to the display. First she went to the closest gown, a floor-length but close-fitting number of mostly black velveteen. Something good for evening Soirees or a intimate dinner for two, by her guess. Its tight neckline and lace-lined bell-sleeves left just enough to the imagination. She tugged at the skirt, the dense bristling of the fabric slipping through her fingers with ease. Her touch uncovered the sneaky knee-high slit in the side. Perhaps not so coy in design after all, Olivia thought as she smirked to herself.  


The next gown she visited was a more opulent ensemble, a fuller skirt with netting underneath. The bodice was more strategically fitted to emphasize a figure, even if it was just the impression of one. The angular neckline was quintessential to Orlesian fashion: just enough cleavage and dramatic flare. It was a charcoal grey gown with shimmering silver embroidery on the waist and hem. The short sleeves were off-the-shoulder, flowing into a short cape at the back that went only as far down as the bottom of her waist, also with embroidered lining. Evaluating it Olivia found herself biting her lip to hold back a smile: it was exactly the kind of frilly, yet fierce taste she had in mind in her youth but never got to realize. Her daydreams had been resuscitated, and it only took ten years, a Rebellion, and the sky breaking open. Perhaps you could go home again, even if it was just to spit on the standards of taste they enforced on you.  


She wandered around to the others one by one, taking in their exquisite aesthetics inch for inch. A hunting outfit lined with white fur, a simpler linen dress most likely for work or casual fraternizing. All in some way shape or form connected to the gloomy color scheme Olivia adored; Josephine had resisted injecting the rainbow into the Inquisitor’s repertoire, for now.  


After a long moment of gawking, at last she came to her bed. Her lovely, comfortable, warm bed, that wasn’t soaked in rainwater or stained with mud. There she found new resting clothes waiting to be worn, as if the assemblage of an entire new wardrobe was not enough. The matching coat and breeches with a high collar and metallic buttons down the middle, also head-to-toe black with silver metallic accents. The insides were lined with fleece for warmth. Olivia had never been more excited to strip out of her traveling gear and into simple attire.  


Before she put the coat on she held it to her face, shoving her nose and mouth into the soft texture of the inner collar. It smelled clean and fresh, like spring almost. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn clothes so untouched and lavish, nor could she recall when she wore something that was not either required uniform, or chosen for her without her consent.

As she buttoned herself up, tried her best not to feel consumed by the mixed emotions. It was intimidating, to say the least, for so much to be done with her in mind. When she was a child she assumed the only way this would ever become reality was if she did as she was told and married well. Looking back those were much simpler times even in their misery. This

For a while, she sat at the edge of her brand new bed and stared at it all. With each she found something new, some small detail that caught her off guard. This was the state of affairs in her life: being both the host of some magical boon, but well-dressed for every occasion. Had she not been born and brutally raised Orlesian she could easily see herself detesting such theatrics. Alas, she understood well enough that these adornments came with a purpose: they were just as much armor as anything she had in the Undercroft. Josephine and Leliana did not have to explain to her such parallels, they were the first ideological pillars of her existence, before any and everything.

But would this be enough to construct an Orlesian daughter back from the grave? Would it go above and beyond and fortify her as a warrior, as a leader, and not just a captivating beauty? No, that was her responsibility.

Orlesian women don’t concede, they counter. They do not mistake, they master…

“Are they to your satisfaction, Inquisitor?” Leliana’s voice echoed down from the loft. An indication of just how used Olivia had become to her lurking, she did not flinch or gasp this time, looking up over her shoulder to see her hooded Spymaster grinning. Her hands were resting on the rail, and she looked quite at home in the nooks and crannies of the chambers.

“I cannot think of anything more I could have possibly asked for,” Olivia replied in earnest. “I must admit it is...a bit disconcerting, the brevity of it.”

Leliana huffed in amusement before the swung her legs around the top of the railing, hopping down with an understated grace onto the main floor. The metal in her boots made a clunking sound on impact that betrayed her otherwise weightless-looking existence. Quietly she made her way to the Inquisitor’s side, standing beside the foot of the bed where she was seated. Her hands gathered behind her back in her quintessential professional posture.

“Josephine oversaw the process meticulously. Your reintroduction into the Imperial Court and the Game will be most interesting.”  


“Is it a reintroduction considering I was but sixteen last I was close to it?”

Leliana snickered, leaning up against the wooden column post of the bedrame. “Inquisitor, if you had been any other person, perhaps that may be the case. The Court loves recycling sentimentalities and histories. You will find it more difficult to shirk your heritage than you’d think.”

Olivia sighed, looking back out at the room. “I suppose you are right. Only now I have seen what their sins look like from the other side of the wall.”

“And that, Your Worship, will be the key to your success.”

There was a brief moment of time that Olivia took to digest the matter at hand. Leliana, ever thoughtful and steady, did not interrupt it. There must have been something about Olivia’s facial expression, or the way her attitude had shifted in her discomfort. The would-be growing pains were doing their work where lectures and discourses could not.

“The Ambassador mentioned you’d find me should you have issues to discuss before tonight’s Council. Am I to assume this means you do?”

Leliana broke from the frame, taking a few steps out toward the centered rug and the mannequins. She walked as if she were ready to stride atop a tightrope at all times, what with her nimble hips and consistently still shoulders. Part of the Inquisitor desired to ask her for pointers, but she remembered just how much Sera’s exercises still posed challenges.

“I sent a small contingent of my people ahead to Crestwood. There’s no sign of Hawke’s friend, but that may be for the better. It was the town, however, that caused alarm: the people are struggling to survive in a makeshift village after a flood consumed the original town.”

“Is this what we will be discussing later this evening? You wish for us to prioritize not only the Wardens but the region?”

Leliana’s chin lowered. “In a word, yes. I did not think you would be disagreeable to it, but I wanted to know for certain. You have proven yourself invested in the wellbeing of the people here well enough for me to believe you capable of it elsewhere.”

Olivia grinned lightly, sitting taller. “Of course, Leliana.”

The two exchanged a reassuring glance between one another. But, just as Olivia thought perhaps that was all, Leliana’s eyes shifted to the ground with a raised brow. The Spymaster turned her back to her, biting back a smile.

“There is also the nature of your time in the village, from what I have heard. You made yourself useful to a particular stable boy, no?”

It was then Olivia felt her cheeks go red, and she suddenly remembered the steeped emotions of that night in particular. The anger, drunkenness, then the sadness, loneliness, and regret. The morning after where she walked on eggshells to cover up her salacious activity, only to have her body betray her. That was not exactly a demure sequence of events.

“Did Cassandra tell you?”

“Not at all. How could she? If she does know, it is not due to my people.”

Olivia blinked, her head twitching in confusion. “What?”

At her reaction, Leliana stifled a laugh. “Inquisitor, my people do not work for Cassandra only. They are extensions of my body where I cannot be. Their job is to secure intelligence, resources, and your safety, not to disburse rumors of how you spend your free time.”

“So, when I told Cassandra what happened and she said I put myself in danger, I was...not really?”

“You are joking, no?”

Olivia exhaled. “Oh, not at all. I did not just withstand bitter flack for it like I was some flagrant sexual miscreant. No flack at all.”

The playful sarcasm in her tone clued Leliana in to just how truly touchy the aftermath of her ‘fun’ turned out. The reports specified numerous points of interest: the stable boy, the Inquisitor sneaking to the Apothecary, her consumption of a vial’s worth of liquid that subsequently caused her sickness. The same vial they would later find tossed to the dirt and have one of their own ‘taste test’ the last drop, confirming it was indeed witherstalk and not some placebo. Whether Olivia was aware of it or not there were always eyes and ears on her, observing for any further depletion in her health. Her life, her survival, was worth that much at least.

“No matter the level of grief you endured, you have returned in one piece. Such blessings should never be understated. I can imagine the Seeker would have voiced her displeasure -- something she is quite good at -- but you have the right to know you are never defenseless. Practice caution, of course, but do not think yourself caged.”

Nodding and stepping closer to Sister Nightingale, Olivia led with a reserved but cordial attitude to it all. “I will keep that in mind. For now I think it best if I do not test my security net you have so effectively created for me. I had my fun, if you could call it that. My attention is on what’s next.”

“Very good. We will address that further tonight. As you have probably seen, your desk as accrued much in your absence. I will leave you to it, if there is nothing else you wish to discuss?”

“Not at the moment. Do take care, Leliana. I appreciate your insights.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

Leliana saw herself out this time with the traditional route, down the stairs and through the doors which would lead to the Hall. Her creative entrance left much to the imagination as to how many ways one could access the Inquisitor’s quarters depending on knowledge. With all she had been greeted with, though, Olivia chose to shelve that inquire for now.

Leliana’s words were comforting in light of all the upheaval one intrigue had caused. In the days traveling back to Skyhold Olivia spent many an hour contemplating the consequences of her past and what it would mean for her future conduct. If she left the life of a Harlot, was she then expected to practice pious chastity to redeem herself? Even if she never was one, would being the Herald nevertheless enforce that expectation? Women were capable of most anything but they were not always encouraged to do so. Josephine’s warning all those weeks ago echoed: a balance would have to be struck.

Once by herself again she rubbed her face with deep pressure, letting out a groan that had been resting in her throat. Crestwood, then. Apparently cursed with its own problems, ones which the Inquisition had the ability and thus the responsibility to assist. Her convictions were only policed by the fear of what they may find. If it was anything like the Mire with its dark terrors and decaying terrain, it would be simply a treat.

Ready for what she was sure was a stack of estimates and intelligence reports for the upcoming expedition she made her way to her desk and took her inaugural seat on the cushioned chair. Regardless of the workload it presented to her she had to admire the spread of it all: writing utensils, a fresh new seal stamp with corresponding wax spoon, and parchment. So much parchment. She was especially endeared by the book stand which would enable her to read and write simultaneously; she had not been able to enjoy such tools since the living in Ostwick.

Staring down the massive stack she gathered the will to dive in headfirst, beginning with sorting them into categories: diplomacy, intelligence, and inter-fortress communications. With Olivia everything had a method to its madness if one could simply search for it. As she assessed and tossed them one by one onto their respective piles Olivia fought the wishful idea that perhaps buried between them was a letter from Theia confirming what she had promised. With every second the letters became fewer and fewer in her hands, until she finally reached the last one. In front of her then were three somewhat-messy pillars of written words. Not a single one was from a wayward Mage to her dear friend. What was taking her so long? It had been over two months since their meeting in the mountains.

Perhaps word had not traveled to wherever she was that Olivia was safe, sheltered, and now Inquisitor. In some untouchable corner of Thedas they were also secure and together. She would have to rely on such assumptions to continue on, because regardless of the truth, she had work to do.

And so she started with the first of the three, girding her loins for whatever bold aristocrats or dignitaries had thought to write the Inquisitor personally.

\--

The Council meeting provided more insight into why Leliana broached the topic personally with the Inquisitor: Crestwood had been hit hard by the fifth Blight, becoming a site of refuge until the mysterious flood. Crestwood was not the only region struggling in the wake of such travesties, as she would come to learn. Olivia was, like she almost always had been, catching up on the learning curve: she was but a young teenager when the fifth Blight threatened Ferelden. Unfortunately, within the echo chamber of her family and their constituents it was difficult to truly understand the scope of the problem. Blights and their corresponding histories were made alarmingly irrelevant.

After the meeting adjourned Olivia spent some time sitting by the fireplace in Josephine’s office, legs criss-cross in the red chair. She rubbed her hands absentmindedly.

“Did your parents not consider the proximity of the Free Marches when they sent you to the Circle?” Josephine asked in continuation of their topic at hand.

Olivia shook her head, staring down the fire. “Ostwick had a sturdy reputation for neutrality and structure, apparently. My Mother cared little for where I was to go even though she obsessed over every little decision prior to it.”

“Forgive me, Inquisitor, but it seems rather insensible given the way politics surrounding Mages unfolded. I knew of multiple noble families who came to discover their children had magical talents, and they maintained direct hands on their welfare despite the taboo nature of their existence.”

“For every one Mage not completely forsaken by their birthright, there are twenty who become little better than candlestick holders,” Olivia replied, feeling the pressure of her compatriots’ lives compelling her to testify on the full picture of it all. Josephine was right: noble-born Mages had possible advantages and privileges, and she had experienced a few of them in the early years of her time at Ostwick. But, with age came increasing disconnect, and her Father’s death had sliced through the most critical duty she had to her family.

“Did the Blight never induce tangible consequences into your life then?”

“Oh, yes, of course. There was the flux of refugees from shore to shore, as you well know. We had some Mages transfer to our Tower as well. Mostly, though, I got to see the consequences of it through my friend, Veronica’s, eyes. She is from Denerim. She waited for weeks and weeks for any scrap of letter or note from family. It was not until long after the Battle of Denerim that she knew for sure how many of them survived.”

Josephine’s eyes looked softened by sympathy when Olivia looked back at her. “...And?”

“Just her Aunt and cousin. She did not have many to begin with. She…” Olivia took a breath mid-sentence. The soreness of Veronica’s face in her mind’s eye, with all that had happened, was growing harder to ignore when she talked about her. Especially when the subject was so evocative of sympathy. “She was very sad, for a time. If it weren’t for Theia she would have completely shut herself away from the life she had built for herself. It was most difficult, being shut away whilst the world was free to take from us the people and things we valued but were forced to leave behind.”

“I cannot imagine, Your Worship. It seems most fitting, then, your oversight and defense of your fellow Mages.”

Olivia smirked bittersweetly. “Yes, though that sense provokes different reactions based on who you ask, as we both know at this point.”

“I still could not imagine sending my young child away during the wake of a Blight. Even if it was out of the direct danger, just the idea of travel during those years...it is...well, I am sure you experienced it, Inquisitor.”

The Inquisitor looked back at Josephine, who was sitting poised and tall on the opposite chair, hands folded on her lap. “I suppose. We kept to the coast, taking only one small boat ride once we reached the edge of Nevarra.”

“You knew where you were the entire time?”

“Yes, I flirted with one of the Templars with niceties and compliments, so he kindly narrated most of our travel. I was a foolish little girl playing with toys I did not know could burn me if I touched when I shouldn’t.”

“With your upbringing, Inquisitor,” Josephine adjusted her position, her shoulders turning more towards Olivia, “I believe you were merely practicing the trade you were taught.”

That remark inspired a chuckle in Olivia, as she leaned back against the upholstered chair to let her tired neck and shoulders off the hook a bit. “Templars had such a black and white understanding of Mages, of people, despite their famed expertise in policing us. I did not need my magic to work my will into fruition. No one does, though we are taught to shame ourselves for dependence on it. If one knows how to word a phrase and pair it with a slight of hand, being able to spout fire from their tongue is irrelevant.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Your Worship. It is a fraught business, the selection of enmity. Being an Ambassador means being acutely aware of when these choices change and correct themselves at all times. Ensuring that the Inquisition remains a touch ahead of them all is my foremost goal.”

Olivia ran her hand up the side of her own thigh, lightly applying rhythmic pressure on a persistent ache from riding for hours. “Then we are all here to practice our trades, aren’t we, Josephine?”

The Ambassador grinned and nodded assuredly. “Precisely.”


	30. Pompous Circumstance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at Skyhold to resume her duties, Olivia is tasked with her first formal reception of visiting nobles. The change of pace uncovers her rather brisk attitude concerning social cues and the attention to artifice.

_26 Eluviesta, 9:41 Dragon_

_Journal,_

_This is my first entry, and even though I have probably experienced enough to write a novel, I cannot think of what to write first. I am also unsure of whether it is wise to identify myself given what my life has become. I think I shall make a promise that, if things turn sour, I will burn you and thus this deliberation will be unnecessary._

_Tomorrow -- or, well, later this morning considering what time it is now -- I am to receive my first official collection of visiting nobles to the fortress. Ambassador Montilyet has ordered a barrage of preparatory rituals at dawn for me, starting with a bath. The way she talked, I couldn’t help but remember the way Mother would go on and on before social engagements. It’s not that Lady Montilyet is anything like my Mother; she is quite the opposite, actually. It was merely the adherence to detail and the ceremonious regard for the process._

_I wonder if getting ready will inspire nostalgia within my heart. It would be a most surprising development, considering I feel as though I cut out any remaining traces of it from my body ages ago. From the list of names she has given me, the majority of them are Orlesian. How typical for my countrymen to give it all up front._

_I am tired of getting ink on my hands. I think I shall end this entry here._

_O.B.S._

\--

It had been ten years since Olivia’s spine new the impression of tightly-wound corset strings. Standing behind the door to the Great Hall she could feel them at her back, resisting the expansion of her ribs with every inhale. The Inquisitor learned there could be endless reasons for stifled breathing -- hiding in bushes, preventing neighboring people from hearing euphoric moans, seeing terrors that took the wind out of her chest -- but none were quite as haunting as the feeling of the constriction her body was molded into year after year.

One more moment, one more second of closed eyes seeing nothing but simple darkness. Then, show time.

On the other side of the door, standing gathered before the pedestal steps of the Inquisitor’s throne, were a gaggle of bodies in opulent Orlesian garb. Useless masks, shoes, and all. The loud ache of the wooden door called their short attention spans to the corner of the room to see the woman of the hour: the one with the green glowing hand, and a midnight black gown. In their greeting Olivia could almost feel a switch go off inside her -- or be sliced across her back, whichever could cause a stinging sensation of obedience. Her childhood had introduced her to both. Her posture arched, her chest and shoulders going into formation as she stepped forward.

The five or six people all bowed or curtsied before her, though they never lowered their eyes to the floor. Before either side could utter a word, the Ambassador flanked Olivia clipboard in hand.

“Your excellencies, it is my honor and privilege to introduce to you Her Worship, Lady Inquisitor Sinclair,” she announced, her presence at Olivia’s side providing an aura of confidence she could draw upon.

They came to stand at the edge of the shallow step, elevating themselves above the company. But with Olivia’s height, it was only a slight uplift -- Josephine counted on this to downplay the maneuver. Despite the lofty introduction Olivia remained quiet, a cool grin on her face as they all stared at her.

“Your Worship,” the first one, a stout man towards the middle. “It is an honor to be graced with your presence so early. It seems as though you have brought midnight into the cradle of the day.”

No response. Just the same still face, and calm mouth upturned at the edges.

“Yes, my Lady,” a woman to his right added, “you are most gracious. Skyhold is but a most quaint mountain escape. It must be a relief to be away from the heat of the Capitol.”

Still, nothing. Though Olivia’s black-lined eyes did flicker a bit as her irises stifled a vigorous glow.

They became more visibly uncomfortable, glancing at each other while she denied them their dance at first. Josephine swayed from hip to hip, eyeing the Inquisitor from her periphery. The goal to come across as seamlessly organized was being put to the test by one of their own.

“Inquisitor,” a second man coaxed, “if I may be so bold in my humor, did the fortress cat steal away your tongue this morning?”

At that, Olivia broke the silence like a handheld mirror smashed against a rock. She started to laugh, a most innocent but triumphant laugh. It created a wave of reaction in them as their feigned smiles faded into open-mouthed confusion. Echoing across the Hall, she turned heads both near and far from the gathering. In the blink of an eye, suddenly everyone wanted to know just what had sent the Inquisitor into a fit of giggling.

A half minute passed before she pinched her fingers around each other in front of her waist, her reverie settling into a cool chuckle burying itself softly under her throat.

Josephine was smiling broadly to cover her lack of conspiration in this behavior, but even she had to turn to the Inquisitor in expectation of a response.

“...My Lady?” the first man uttered, shoulders lowering a bit.

“Ahh,” Olivia surrendered, “No need to fret, everyone. I was simply waiting for something to be humorous. When my hopes were dashed, I thought of something inside my head to get a good laugh in at least once, before an hour of disappointment took hold of my time.”

Grins and smiles of mixed emotion appeared on their faces. It all seemed rather rude and abrasive, until a man in the back of the started to chuckle. One by one, they all followed suit, even the man she principally insulted. Though underneath his mask, she was sure there was a bit of bruised ego.

Turning to the Josephine, Olivia smirked and clapped her gloved hands together. “My dear Ambassador, I do believe you have arranged a reception for us? I would hate to add insult to my injury in the form of cold tea.”

Josephine smiled, undoubtedly taking a mental note of Olivia’s style of breaking the ice. “That I have, Your Worship. If you all will follow me into the Gardens, we have much to revel in this morning.”

Olivia joined in her bright attitude, turning to lock on the man who made the comment about her tongue. Smiling broadly as she lightly clutched her gown skirt with one hand, she reached out with the other to take hold of his arm. Not willing to seem unwilling to oblige to the Lady Inquisitor in front of everyone, he didn’t put up a fight. Rubbing shoulders with him as she guided them towards the door down the way she leaned in ever-so-demurely.

“Tell me, Ser, have you ever known a cat so voracious that she would hunt her own tongue?” she asked him with a raised brow.

The man leaned his head back as he laughed sensationally. Orlesians and their pompous overreaction: the only thing more insufferable was their ability to be needlessly coy.

“I am afraid not, Your Worship. Unlike Ferelden we do not covet animals that chase after their own appendages.”

“Hm, you are quite right. Though, I would not pin you as the expert on appendages worth chasing.”

Another gaggle of laughter from behind as Olivia traced her rhetorical tip-toes. The man merely smiled, admitting another understated grumble of laughter. His chiseled jawline covered in bristles of facial hair that had gone dark grey with age all that shown with his mask on.

“All due respect, Your Worship,” he muttered, reciprocating her leaning, “men like me do not have to chase.”

Olivia’s lips parted, exposing her tongue at the brim of her teeth. As they neared the door to the garden she hummed deep, a sound of entertainment.

“Sincere laughter may yet be in store for me, after all.”

\--

By early afternoon, word throughout the fortress had spread from corner to corner about the Inquisitor’s performance. Flirtatious yet clever, bold yet playful. The mental handbook of Orlesian womanhood could collect enough dust to cloak a mountain top, but it would not be enough to distort its almighty doctrine. For as much as Olivia dreaded her heritage she played it like a most hard-practiced role. There were critiques to be noted, of course, and Josephine would be most instructive on them. But, for an hour at least, Olivia had time to decompress.

Stealing away to the Undercroft she took the opportunity to get more acquainted Dagna the arcanist, who had been in-house for a no more than a week. Olivia had been thrilled from the get-go to have her on board the Inquisition’s ranks -- the thought of having someone skilled in the arcane was like opening a whole wing of doors to new possibilities. Finding out she was a pleasant and kind person on top of her resume was but a bonus.

“Yes! He said it three times! I almost had to bite my tongue until it bled,” Olivia insisted, walking the tightrope of the railing bordering the indoor balcony, on orders to practice such whimsical talents from Sera. Even if it meant doing so barefoot in a gown.

Dagna snorted through her nose as she measured what looked to be dangerous, thus exciting, powdery substances. “If you ask me, a man that into the number of ships he has is simply covering up the fact that he never learned to swim.”

“I wanted to ask what the color scheme was just to see how far he would take it,” Olivia replied, pivoting on the balls of her feet to switch direction. Her hands were held out as if she were ready to hold a horizontal balancing pole. “Ugh, I will be having to recuperate from the drop in my intelligence for days. Tell me again of the results of yesterday’s tests?”

Dagna stepped back from her desk, raising her goggles off her eyes. “Well, we got...fire.”

“Yes, excellent!”

“I know, right?!”

Olivia looked back at her and smiled. “We still need materials, don’t we?”

“I’m afraid so. But, that’s an easy fix. Just take the lists we draft on with you and send copies to your outposts, and we should have more than enough fun. Sweet, flaming fun.”

Olivia giggled, turning her attention to her dirtied toes poking out from under her skirts, one in front of the other on the rough stone bar. Perhaps this was also bettering her poise as a lady and not just a fighter. Two birds with one stone, one might say.

Her mental wanderings were cut short by the sound of the Undercroft door coming ajar. When the figure stepped through, fur-lined cape and armor, Olivia’s chest hollowed out.

“Oh, Inquisitor…?” Cullen said as he looked up from the reports in his hands.

Olivia let her hands fall to her sides and her smile fade as she froze in place.

“Commander!” Dagna’s energetic tone called out from the lower level. “You got the goods for me?”

“I...oh, yes,” he said, blinking himself back into the present moment. As he did, Dagna came up the stairs ready to take them off her hands. He parted with them easily, a friendly nod to say thanks.

Olivia looked down towards the front of her gown, her hands dusting off the sides of her waist. Look busy and be busy was the name of the game. Maybe he would do as they had always done when forced to be in the same room together: handle the business at hand and go different ways. Better neutral than anything.

“I, uh, heard you gave the visiting nobles quite the bitter welcome,” he said, shifting his weight to the side.

Olivia looked up as if she were about to spout off in defense, lips parted in an “O,” but she stopped herself at the sound of his pleasantries. Making eye contact with him, she closed her mouth and cleared her throat.

“Uh, yes. They...were very trying on my patience.”

“They always are,” he grinned sorely.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed a bit, but she did not show hostility. “Indeed.”

A staredown unfolded then whilst Dagna made her way back to her work, blissfully unaware of the ice the Commander and Inquisitor were contending with in their relationship. The sounds of tinkering and metal clanking becoming the theme music to their apparent armistice.

“Well, I should get back to my office. I trust you will be replying to those reports I sent your way this morning?” he asked, careful hands animating his words.

Olivia shifted her weight to face him head on, taking hold of her gown skirt to lift it out of the way of her footfalls. “Yes, I will. Thank you.”

A modest grin arose on his face as he bowed his head to her. Against her pettiness she matched it, nodding in return for his gesture. He did not push his luck, and instead turned and headed out the door from whence he came. Once he was gone Olivia exhaled loudly, tilting her head back to gaze up at the decayed ceiling.

Oh, great, we have something in common now.

“You got a crush on him or something?” Dagna asked as she worked, proving she could both eavesdrop and calculate delicate formula ingredients.

Just hearing the notion, no matter its basis in truth, made Olivia’s stomach drop. “Oh, yuck! Don’t be silly!” she said, sticking her tongue out like she had tasted something disgusting. “He and I just have...differences.”

“Heh, differences are the famous last words of love, Inquisitor.”

Crouching down onto her knees before hopping onto the lower floor, Olivia dusted off her hands. “You have a point, which is why I don’t bother with that business. If he thinks my expressed disdain up until this point to be a facade for affection he is more like his former compatriots than he admits.”

Dagna shrugged, stretching the fit of one of her work gloves. “Men are headaches. Women can be, too. You know what isn’t though?”

“Hm?” Olivia looked back at her, arms folded.

Standing back, Dagna smiled and pointed towards a section of dagger blade metal on a leather mat. It looked darker in color to steel, but besides that it seemed rather benign in nature. Olivia raised a brow, eyes bouncing from it to Dagna. The anticlimactic silence only went on for a moment before Dagna snickered, grabbing a long metal prod tool and hitting the prototype with it. Immediately on contact the dagger metal spouted fire, lit up like a torch and ready to do damage.

Olivia flinched, but not from surprise. It was like her mana sent a shiver from toe to ear in excitement. Her eyes looked like they lit up along with the experiment, and she clapped her hands together close to her chest.

“Ah!” she giggled, “this is extraordinary! I have to know how you manage this!”

Dagna grinned smugly, folding her arms. “You’re getting what you pay for, Inquisitor. Trust me.”

\--

Olivia spent the rest of the day bent on further redeeming the nauseating start. After the Undercroft, it was surveying requisitions for fortress reconstruction, touring around to inspect what remained to be fixed. People were eager to voice concerns and needs to the Inquisitor directly, and she reciprocated their energy in her desire to hear them. Already debates had been sparked over the future repurposing of a broken down tower. Olivia did not share with those around her that she envisioned a space for Mages to work in peace away from the main grounds where ex-Templars or otherwise could harass them. Her attitude was smug, but concealed nonetheless.

Coming back down from the tower ruins she caught sight of Bull who looked to be heading for the tavern for a post-workout pint of something strong. His expression when they locked eyes turned to one of humorous curiosity.

“Boss, you look like a Tevinter’s dream girl for a roll in the tent,” he mused, placing a hand on his hip as she came closer.

Olivia scoffed rolling her face around in a half-nod. “That is exactly the goal, Bull. This is how I will stun all the Venatori bastards for you to then level like a wheat field.”

“Hah! You’re gonna have to do more than work the decrepitly hot angle.”

“I’m working on it. You have a productive day?”

Bull shifted his weight from hip to hip, rolling his shoulders a bit in bravado. “The usual trouble. Workouts, drinking, reports, try not to fall through a broken wood floor. That Seeker of yours packs a punch when she’s not taking her angst out on pitiful straw men.”

Olivia’s chest leavened as she delayed her response. Suddenly the sensation of the evening chill on her strategically propped cleavage felt more inconvenient.

“Yes, well, she isn’t my Seeker. I think she would prove more contentious in sparring practice if it was implied she belonged to anyone.”

“I know. You think I get into it with training just to play nice?”

Olivia chuckled. “No, just as I don’t dress like this to play dumb.”

Bull smirked, nodding once with a raised brow. “I may call you blondie, Inquisitor, but you’ll never catch me or my men taking you for a fool. Neither will the Tamassrens, which, trust me when I say they’ll be...appreciative.”

“Fair enough,” Olivia replied as she scanned the scene around them, watching as people went about their evening activities. “Though, it would be rather hilarious to see if people would swallow the Inquisitor being a beautiful little fool.”

“Hilarious, until demons shit up the world and everyone wants to know how you got put in charge. Speaking of, I got the marching orders for Crestwood.”

Olivia nodded, a shrug in her posture. “Are you excited?”

“Oh, giddy. What could be better than a mysteriously depressed town sprinkled with whatever it is we’re bound to dig up?”

“Fair. But, it’ll be fun, right?”

Bull chuckled a bit, giving her the once over. The Inquisitor was catching onto her allies’ personal tastes, even if they included brutal fighting and general mayhem. “You got it, blondie. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go get a pint to cap off my day. Don’t go full nightmare on the place just yet, alright?”

Olivia laughed, swaying in her movements playfully as she took her first preeminent steps back towards the stairs to the Hall. “I have to entertain myself somehow! Take care, Bull,” she said warmly, waving him off before she turned away from him for good. As she shifted her gaze around with her, her slightly blurred vision took in the surrounding architecture in passing. The Tavern was rebuilt nicely for being accomplished in a matter of two months, and the requisition office was sound. Much was left to be done, but Skyhold was breathing with a stronger chest nowadays.

Her wandering eyes noticed the tall, robust posture wearing purple and red training clothes. She did not halt or slow her walking pace, as their orbits became closer she found it harder to look away. Cassandra had her back to her, looking as if she were inspecting a training sword for some reason Olivia could not understand nor wished to find out. Ever since their journey back to Skyhold things had been this way between them. Perhaps for the better, or maybe just for the sake of plateaued self-preservation.

As she drew nearer to the open courtyard and thus the stairs that awaited her, Olivia took a breath and looked away for good, choosing instead to focus on the somewhat soggy ground before her. There were better things to concern herself with, like ensuring the mud did not stain the hem of her new dress, and thinking about what Josephine would advise her about conduct in the future.

\--

As Olivia pressed onward, Cassandra felt successful in her attempts to look preoccupied by something, anything that would keep her from having to explain why she stared more than she should have as she came down the battlement stairs dressed in her gown. She had yet to see her all washed up and outfitted like a noblewoman, and it was quite the departure from the dirty-faced Mage who oscillated between a sweet smile and a wolverine’s bite. The head-to-toe black ensemble was not something she expected from an Orlesian born-and-raised woman, let alone her apparent lack of pomp in her attitude. She did not allow herself to look upon her while she was in conversation with Bull, but her playful laughter and conversation were at times loud enough to hear anyways.

As if timed within a serial novelist’s mind for such things, a few seconds after the Inquisitor ended her staring Cassandra peered over her shoulder to watch her walk away. She slid the training sword into a simple hide sheath and held it within one hand tightly gripping it.

She wondered if she had gone too far, or perhaps not far enough, to establish common ground with Her Worship. The stakes were only going to get higher the more time passed. Cassandra had more than just a report to build with the Inquisitor -- she had concerns and convictions as well, and to an extent they depended upon the support of her technical leader. The leader that all the workers in Skyhold gossiped about like she was some endearing enigma.

But the Seeker, like Bull, had received orders to prepare for Crestwood. Despite Olivia’s distancing she had apparently not grown tired of her presence abroad on missions. Maybe there was some silver lining after all to the efficacy of their association.


	31. Good Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of the mission to Crestwood, Olivia wanders down to the throne room and finds company in Varric. A friendly conversation turns into a tipping point for Olivia, when he advises her not to forsake some of the most important parts of being a leader when times call for it: the bonds you make with your allies, even when they seem most unorthodox.

Orlesian children were not raised, they were curated. Like artwork, they were conceptualized, conjured, and refined down to the most precisely desired image. The same tastes, or rather, the same critically detached attitude towards tastes, was encouraged as an ironic means of exceptionalism. This contradiction contributed to the headache that was Orlesian society and the Imperial court for all those raised outside of its ensnaring web.

Olivia knew better than to answer with sincerity when asked about her interests. Even though she had fought hard to resist her Mother’s orders to refrain from passions lest she be ruled by something other than her own initiative, Olivia held what few fascinations she had close to her chest. In her Father’s life and role as an Officer in the army she took refuge. Playing the role as the sophisticated but oblivious daughter she would stow away from her and her Mother’s shared wing of the Manor whenever her Father’s fellow soldiers visited. If they lounged in the gardens, she would scale the nearest wall and hide behind ferns, listening to their debates and laughter. If they went for a hunt on the Sinclair lands, she would track them as far as she could on foot before the wilderness grew too dangerous.

Even though Orlesians by birth and grooming were fierce and intellectual, and thus raised children to be in their image, there was something about Olivia that inspired underestimation; for some reason or another, the young Olivia was mistaken for meek and mild. Beautiful, but simple. Perhaps it was her stature, or her feigned shell of passivity she used to cope with the expectations that defined her existence.

Only in certain cases where Olivia’s temper had been crossed did she make it known the truth of her tenacious disposition. Once, during a Soiree held at her cousin’s Estate. A man at least twenty years her senior -- Olivia herself being only fifteen at the time -- had taken to teasing her about the color of her gown. Having not been introduced to society more than several months due to her youth, Olivia found herself estranged from the upper hand. Her Mother nowhere to be found, probably off refilling her wine or talking someone’s ear off. Her Father, perhaps out in the yard with other men talking politics. This meant she’d have to spar alone, without parents or elders to back her up.

“Tell me, little Lady Sinclair,” the man coaxed, holding his chalice in the air as if he were giving a toast, “how you managed to find a dress with that fabric; I would have sworn such material would have been sold out in the production of tablecloths in the Capitol.”

Olivia, standing in the corner of the terrace where they and several other expensively-dressed people with masks orbited, felt as though the moon above their heads had become an interrogation spotlight. Just as it seemed she was eaten alive by the situation, a memory of one of her eavesdropping afternoons flashed into her mind. Her Father’s friend, Ser Bernard, had said the most curious remark as they played a round of cards one afternoon.

Filtering it for her own use, she smiled and rest her hand on her shoulder, fingers grazing along her bare collarbone.

“Monsieur Gregory, I take it you are particularly passionate about commercial interests, then?”

The man laughed, swaying his weight from side to side in gallant confidence. “I am a man of prolific taste, little Lady Sinclair. It would do you well to familiarize yourself with such company, perhaps you may learn it for yourself.”

Olivia giggled, then, and stepped closer to him. Reaching her poised, small hand towards his drink, she took it from him and stepped back.

“Hm, how generous of you,” she said, taking a sip of it, “I should think it is that magnanimity that has you sleeping with all those gambling debts under your pillow at night, then?”

The man coughed. “Excuse me, my Lady, I haven’t the slight--”  


“Oh, silly me!” she gasped with the back of her hand to her mouth. “I must have mistaken the phrase “prolific taste,” see I thought you meant extensive knowledge. Now I know it was but a playful euphemism for extensive misguidance. Thank you, Monsieur, for this most instructive lesson in rhetoric. You may have chalice back. I am afraid I do not find warm wine my particular...taste.”

Handing him his cup and bowing her head most artfully, Olivia sought her way to better company, hearing the symphony of laughs and Orlesian tongues mumbling nearby. Later that evening, gossip circled back around to the older Lady Sinclair about her daughter’s most demonstrative behavior in the garden. Rather than scold or advise against such shows, she raved about it the entire carriage ride home, insisting that she must call on Monsieur Gregory the very next day rather than disassociate with him. In Orlais, contentious opinions were not a sign you should disengage, but rather the opposite.

Her Mother’s co-option made Olivia regret ever opening her small, glossed lips. She endured three weeks of “calling” reciprocated between the houses Sinclair and Gregory, until at long last she crossed a line insulting even by Orlesian standards: tossing wine onto his new pair of bejeweled slippers after he asked her to sing in his parlor room. Mother Sinclair scolded her for hours.

_“We do not make enemies of friends, Olivia, unless there are better friends to be made of their enemies! Have you forgotten?!”_

_“No, Mother.”_

\--

While what awaited the Inquisition in Crestwood was mostly uncertain, Olivia was less anxious in the night before their departure than she had been for previous missions. Something about experience and knowing that she could never truly prepare herself gave her an ironic peace in the face of new challenges these days. Sometimes the most liberating notion is that the unknown is that way for a reason.

By the time she had finished packing her trunk, and settled all remaining correspondences left on her desk, she realized it was only nearing midnight. That meant at least seven more hours of busying herself -- something easier to do on ‘normal’ nights, and not the ones before traveling. Pulling on her floor-length robe, she tied a stiff knot across her waist and stole away to the Great Hall. There, she found fireplaces still lit and emanating warm light, though the wall torches had been put out. Most everyone who would be frequenting the Hall had gone to bed or elsewhere, perhaps to the tavern for some action after hours. There remained but one figure, that of a Dwarf, sitting slouched on a chair facing the fire in the far left corner from where she stood. Olivia grinned, folding her arms against her chest for warmth. She took one last glance in the direction of the Inquisitor’s throne, darkened and dormant in its stature, before she made her way to Varric.

“No time for fun in the tavern, Varric?” Olivia said as she drew near. From the side of his position he eyed her, a crooked smile appearing on his lips.

“Heh, not tonight. But if I had your stamina, I’d be swinging from the chandeliers every night I could.”

Olivia giggled. “I tried. Remember? When Bull hoisted me up so that I could place the candles on it?”

Varric smirked, shifting from the left side to the right in his chair. “That was the worst and best mishap that day, second only to the ol’ Commander knocking his head on the broken beam.”

Coming closer to the fire, Olivia elected to sit down beside it, leaning her left shoulder against the stone of the fireplace structure. Hugging her knees to her chest as she gathered her skirts, tucking them under her, she let out a bated breath. “What keeps you up, Varric?”

“Agh, what keeps everyone up when enough time passes. Memories, old and new. Friends, old and...well, you get the picture.” He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, joining his fingertips together in front of his chest. “I don’t think I need to ask you what keeps you up, though, Firefly. You got a premium on worrisome shit to preoccupy your mind.”

Olivia shrugged. “It’s been like this for me since before any of this happened. When my friends and I were on the run, it was worse. I had no room to sleep in, no bed to keep warm. But, I had them.”

“That tends to be how it goes, in my experience. Life gets rough, but you find friends who are rougher. I remember Hawke used to stay awake and pace, too. Things got a bit better after Isabela...well, gave her something to be tired about.”

Olivia laughed with a cheeky smile. “What, all the love and amorous lovemaking?”

“Well, that, and walking the line between friendship and treachery culminating her in her disappearing for a time with a very important book. But, these are semantics.”

The laughter continued as the Inquisitor crinkled her toes up towards the ceiling. When she calmed back down, the two stared at the fire for a couple of minutes, the temperate night air being enjoyable for once. After that, Varric broached conversation again.

“You know, for one blonde with a knack for evading nosy attention, you sure cause a stir around here when you put on a gown and wash your face. I couldn’t cough sideways without hearing something about the way you trotted around in that bunch of black fabric.”

Olivia rolled her eyes as she looked out into space. “Everyone thinks every little thing I do is so dire. I understand the anchor, and the power, and being Inquisitor. But I am hardly making miraculous things happen every second in the day. If I sneeze, people will think it a sign of plague.”

“Hey, you don’t mess around with plague. Demons, rifts in the sky? Maybe. But plague? There’s no mysterious anchor for that smell. You’re stuck with that, kid.”

“Oh, fine. I suppose I just have an aversion for meticulous attention, is all.”

“What, do I hear a tragic childhood coming on?”

Olivia’s head jerked back, her eyes widening with surprise. “Agh, no! Who said anything about that?”

Varric both tilted and shook his head, lifting his leg up to rest it across his knee. “Oh, trust me. By now, I can spot one twenty paces out. Just give it up now or else it’ll find its way during something tragic like a battlefield confession.”

“You wonder why Cassandra dislikes you so,” Olivia said as she rubbed her shins.

“I wonder many things, Inquisitor, but not that. Go on, make my night.”

Olivia shook her head, closing her lips in protest. The two stared at each other for a moment, Varric’s jovial but careful expression seeming to be his method of getting down to the bottom of the Inquisitor’s background. Something many had tried to do, by one way or another, but never could accomplish. Every divulged detail had been of her own accord, or felt like it with her attitude, even when she was a prisoner thought to be guilty of murder. But, she was also known for being full of surprises, and this situation would be no exception.

“Tell you what, Varric,” Olivia replied as she glanced towards the sound of popping embers, “I will answer one question with a story, if you owe me a favor in return for me to call upon when I need it.”

Varric leaned his head back onto the chair. He pursed his lips, as if a business deal had just been placed on the table. “You Orlesians and your exchange rates for a good secret. Maker,” he chuckled.

“This is no Orlesian maneuver, this is simply me appraising my secrets at the correct value. Not everyone gets this kind of deal with me. I am sure one of Leliana’s people are suspended from the rafters with an open ear as we speak, thinking he’s about to get a raise.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Varric grinned. “Now, there remains the matter of what questions I can ask. I’m familiar with fine print tricks, Inquisitor.”

“No fine print. Any question, from the top to the bottom of the barrel. Name it, and I will oblige.” She rest her cheek on the top of her knee, mimicking the posture she had all those years ago beside her Father’s fire in his study. For the decisive words she spoke, she looked rather simple and sweet to the eye. That was her power.

Varric eyed her for a moment, processing the deal in his mind. Making deals where one of his specialties, but he did not expect one from the Inquisitor to be so candidly given.

“You got a deal, but you better be upstanding in that favor, Inquisitor. I’m not swan-diving into a pool of magma for a lost hair pin.”

Olivia giggled. “You say that now.”

“Hey, I still gotta ask my question. The floor is still mine, after all. Hm,” he tapped three of his fingers together in a rhythm, looking up at the ceiling to contemplate the authority he had been given. One question was all he was given, but if used well, it would be all he needed.

“Who were you, to those closest to you?”

Olivia’s eyes, once lit up with playful humor, dimmed at the short but poignant inquiry. Asking a daughter of Orlais who she was was one of the most confounding things to do, after all, even with her many years spent outside their borders. Her grin fell, and she pursed her lips. Looking away and down to the soot-dusted stone floor around her feet, she seemed almost insulted.

Varric tilted his head. “Something wrong, Inquisitor?”

“No, no, Varric,” she mumbled, shaking her head once, “I am simply pondering, don’t be concerned.”

He wanted to say more, but kept quiet. Something told him he had hit the precise nerve he had been looking for; but he had no way of knowing it would snuff out the incandescence of her personality so absolutely. It was like watching a candle in a dark hall go out.

Olivia took a shallow breath, running her hand along the side of her face to pull back some of her hair, pinning it behind her ear.

“I was a daughter, technically. A friend...or at least, I tried to be,” she began, wrapping her hands around her knees. “Someone who was always needing protection in some way. They told me I was kind, and that I listened well. I surprised them sometimes with my misadventures, but I did not stray often. I was terribly fretful of most everything that was strange and unknown, and for some reason they still kept me around. They said they always knew if it was something they depended upon, I would find some way of overcoming my fears.”

Her voice had become more brittle, soft as she continued her response. It was not lost on Varric, who did his best to keep a good wicked grace face on to cover up his intrigue.

“Were these your friends from the Circle?”

Olivia nodded, biting her lip as she felt tears start to pool in her eyes ever-so-slightly. In her mind were their faces, again, like they always did when something came up and reminded her. Their faces when they laughed, smiled, and thought about something silly. She preferred those images to most anything else. They were somewhere, out there, showing these faces to everyone but her.

“Inquisitor,” Varric said, interrupting her spinning thoughts, “from my experience, the top of the mountain can be the loneliest place with the best view.”

“Indeed, but also the hardest won, after spending your days fighting the perils below it.”

“Would you rather face the peak alone, though, after defeating the trenches with those who value and trust you?”

Olivia blinked the excess tears from her eyes, quickly wiping them from her cheeks with her robe sleeve. Crying was no appropriate business, and this was not what she intended from a fun conversation by the fire. In her shallow retrospect she wondered what provoked her to make such a ‘deal’ with Varric knowing it would probably end this way. Something about it didn’t feel voluntary, like taking a boiling pot off the heat to let it simmer down before it overflowed.

“I am not sure what I want, Varric. Truthfully, I find that whole notion to be rather irrelevant with the duties at hand.”

Varric did not take a single second to look away from her, absorbing all the information and detail she did not speak into truth. These intricacies were just as, if not more important than any confession she was willing to give.

“I won’t lie and say Kirkwall was a cake walk. In fact, most of the time it was shitty with a side of horrible. But, it would have been unbearable without the allies that became friends to each other when the world saw them as misfit thieves and miscreants. Even if the friendship didn’t last, or go as planned. But, I digress -- it’s been, what, half a year since the Conclave almost?”

“I believe so.”

“So, are you trying to prove the longest-running streak of being friendless in times of disaster, or what?”

“I have friends, Varric, they are just...they…” she looked down at her lap, noticing the ash staining her hands and wrists from touching the floor.

“Firefly, you need both.”

“...Both...?”

“Friends who have walked next to you, but for whatever reason can’t now, and those by your side when the Maker decides to play around with the world when he gets bored up there. You need both. Survival isn’t all about being the best at killing.”

Olivia sucked on her teeth, her tears calming down but the knot in her chest still lingering. Was this the first time someone had looked at her and saw the pain she had been carrying when she was only supposed to let it heal? No, it was anything but. Her mind traveled to that night in the village barn, arguing with Cassandra bitterly to defend what had been left of her ego. Though, the Seeker did not have the poignancy in her anger that Varric had in his simple curiosity for a good story. The theme still stood, though, when the smoke cleared.

She collected herself, rubbing her sleeve wrist against her slightly congested nose.

“I can’t just move on and pretend what happened was another world. I’m doing my best, Varric. It’s not like the Circle, where we all have some common ground in what we live through. I can’t just...be chummy with the Commander, the See--the, the people who come from the Orders that did harm to me and to my kind.”

“I’m not saying you have to share diary pages and spoon them, Inquisitor. Though I’ve seen weirder shit happen then that between people who have differences. You never know.”

“Oh, uh-huh.”

Varric chuckled, leaning onto his left armrest. As they locked eyes, grins formed on both their faces, both symptoms of their minds going elsewhere for a brief sojourn into happier memories. Not every discourse had to be laced with coldness and despondency. Even with the warmly disarming attitudes, though, Olivia was not backing down easy.

“I can’t change who I am, is my point. Even when I am bending to all of this, I am still the same mouthy and unrealistic woman at Haven that gave everyone a headache. No fancy dresses or new titles can erase that, and sometimes...sometimes I think people are hoping for it.”

“No one has asked you to, and if they have, so what? The person you are now, is the person you were before, just with new priorities.”

“You make it sound so easy,” she said, stifling a giggle.

Varric let his leg slip off his knee as he sat forward, elbows on either side of his lap as he faced her. His chin, tilted a bit upwards with pleasant charm.

“It’s not easy, Firefly, but the point is it doesn’t have to be. You’re still capable of it. You’re not some interloper standing between a lethal Spymaster, sulky Commander, and enthusiastic Ambassador. You got the grit, but don’t make it harder on yourself by going it alone.”

In that moment, Olivia shifted her gaze back towards him. As her eyelids fluttered open and close, her eyes slowly began to glow as they did at the beginning. They grew in their light in the way sunrises did: in their own time, but steady. They were matched by her soft smile, her face having dried from the shed tears. In return, Varric grinned, and something in his own eyes spoke of nothing but trustworthiness to the Inquisitor in her time of vulnerability.

She took a breath. Dusting off her skirt, she pushed herself up off the floor and stood taller this time around. Varric sat back, keeping eye contact with her as he watched her regain her footing. Once up, she smiled and went over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I think that is enough for one night. Thank you, Varric.”

As she pulled away, Varric shrugged lightly. “What else are friends for, Inquisitor?”

His choice of words made her only smile wider, and she nodded in concession as she turned herself towards the direction of her door. For once, the presumption did not grade on her nerves and insecurities. Her heart skipped a beat, as if it had been waiting for a change of pace, for something to remind it of its flexibility. She would not reject this, not this time.

“Good trouble, as always, friend.”


	32. Touchy Subjects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two and a half weeks into their time in Crestwood, and Olivia tries to put Varric's advice to good use. She puts the wisdom toward one of her most complicated and temperamental working relationships with Seeker Pentaghast; at first, the calloused nature of their dynamic is hard to break down. But, as the Inquisitor learns, sometimes swallowing pride means gaining the ability to breathe.

“Alright, everyone can piss off about my fear of Wyverns!” Olivia roared. Dressed in sturdy gear and a hood over her head, she stood amongst the assembled group on benches and blankets surrounding the campfire. At her feistiness, they erupted in laughter and and giggles, everyone from scouts to her lofty allies. Turns out, handling a small wyvern infestation problem earlier that day had proven more comedic in its execution: even Solas, who no one had known to chuckle besides when he first met the Inquisitor in the mountains, could not help but do so. After all, what else is one to do when the Herald of Andraste shrieks when she echants her attacks on a Wyvern mother and her three younglings?

Bull was less reserved in his glee, of course. “Ha! Boss, no one likes a sore Sally,” he teased, hand resting robustly on his thigh.

“Yes, well, I prefer my Sally's sore anyhow, after a long night,” Olivia said with a deep, fiendish tone, smiling as she bent over to grab one of the poured cups of wine. The crowd broke out in a concert of ‘Oohs’ and groans. As she locked eyes with her Qunari comrade, though, it was all fun between them.

“Hey, if she’s into blonde wyvern bait, she can have you!” he jabbed back.

“And why not, I am delicious!” Olivia giggled, taking a swig of her drink. “That bastard with the axe thought so!”

“Ragh! His weapon was a beauty. I’m glad you’re letting me have a go with it, Boss. A little blood splatter never stopped a good time.” Bull finished his cup, then, and set it down beside him.

“Anytime, Bull,” Olivia smiled as she raised her cup. “Now, If you’ll excuse me all, I must field some letters. Do not burn this fortress down the second week we’ve got it, alright?”

Everyone hummed affirmative sounds, some going so far as to say Yes, Ser, to her warning. With a last nod she turned and walked from the middle of the open courtyard to the line of tent roofs and drapes lit like giant lanterns, covering tables and crates of important materials. Indeed, two weeks had passed since the recapturing of Craer Bronach from its occupation by bandits. It had also been a week and a half since the mystery of the flood had been solved and rectified. After a rather gruesome underground series of battles with demons, the Inquisition had conquered the remaining haunts of the region, and both sunshine and relative tranquility had been restored.

The field had bent to their will, and with her allies fortifying their bonds between one another, it was shaping up into a victory of collaboration even among misfits. Not even an underwater Fade rift embedded in Dwarven ruins could keep them down. Their time had been exhaustive but there were changes in the air, the dynamic between them all.

She held her wine in-hand curled against her shoulder as she looked over the spread of maps and lists on the large wood table. She took one last sip of it before setting it down on the right corner of the table, eyeing the pile of letters and reports on the other side left for her by a Courier.

Given that it was early evening, many of the letters would have to wait for the morning return of Ravens to be dispatched. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy some reading before bed. As she grabbed the first couple piled at the top, her eyes scanned for notable words or names. First, a report from one of the nearby camps about the dragon sightings to the south -- _oh, Bull will be so pleased,_ Olivia thought to herself. Her eyes switched to the second letter in her left hand, which was heavier. Opening it revealed a concise report on the travel plans for Hawke and her ally, Warden Stroud, to travel to Skyhold. They were to travel discreetly with no Inquisition guard, in case anything should -- and the letter specified this as Hawke’s wording -- “come up to make us work for it.”

Reaching the end of the last front-to-back page, Olivia took a breath and folded it back into shape. Stroud’s warnings about the Calling sweeping across the ranks of Wardens was nothing to sneer at. Corypheus’s dragon pet did not comfort her concerns; if only they knew where it came from and how he had managed to bend it to his will. Nothing was making sense, and everything was compounding fear. That left her bent on Stroud’s lead, tracking and planning a new mission to the west.

The thought of more traveling whilst she was still out on the front of the current mission wasn’t exactly joy-inducing. Crestwood was no small task to take back from the clutches of demons, bandits, and a foolishly cowardice Mayor.

She closed her eyes and rubbed her face with her hands, a lazy groan escaping her throat. Through her fingers she saw a shadow approach the tent, compelling her to straighten up. It was the Seeker, still wearing her hooded cape from examining reforticiation of the fortress walls and outposts.

“Inquisitor,” she greeted, “the flooding did minimal damage to the fortress exterior. There has been a shift change in the outposts. So far, all is well.” She sounded a bit tired, but ahead of the ball.

Olivia smiled, glad to know they had one less issue to concern themselves with. “That’s a relief. Thank you for checking personally, Seeker. I hope you have time to enjoy your evening.”

Cassandra looked as if she were about to simply nod and go, but just as she had shifted her weight onto her first step, she stopped. Instead her eyes caught onto Olivia grabbing another few letters to sort through, already onto something else with her attention. That is, until the sound of hesitant boot steps made the Inquisitor glance upwards. The Seeker had lingered, looking as if she wanted to say something. Her armor and cloak damp and heavy looking, her short hair spiked in some parts from the intermittent rain showers down by the dam.

“Yes?” Olivia asked simply.

Cassandra blinked then, and shook her head a couple times. “It seems to have slipped my mind, Inquisitor. Forgive me, I will be off to supper. Have you...had time to eat?”

Olivia grinned and nodded. “Yes, I have. Thank you for checking on me.”

Cassandra’s face softened a bit, then, and she grinned on one corner of her mouth. Bowing her head to the side in farewell, the Seeker withdrew from the tent without another word. Olivia tucked her chin again to look down at her letters, but she trailed her movement from the corner of her eye until she was no longer visible.

_A month ago, I would have told her to sod off, probably. This is...not going to be easy._

\--

A half hour passed and she was finally down to the last piece of correspondence, a report on lumber acquisitions that would go towards rebuilding Skyhold. No letter from Theia, but with all the information she had absorbed, maybe the emotions would have proven too much for one night of work. She would be up at first light to start replies and sign-offs, like she had gotten good at over time. Olivia may not have been the most intimidating-looking leader, but she was attentive to her paperwork. All heroes started somewhere after all.

Bronach has calmed down significantly from the jovial concert of voices at supper, many going to their posts, taking their guard shifts, or finding the time to sleep. With nothing else left to do for the next several hours, Olivia decided going to her own cot would be the best. Feigning rest was better than pretending non-stop action was healthy, in her mind. Walking across the mossy cobblestone to the large sleeping tents lined on the other side of the courtyard, she found hers with little trouble. This time, she was not surprised to see her bunkmate.

Slipping inside she went to work sliding out of her lightly armored coat, the buckle hissing as it was ripped from her torso. Cassandra was like she always found her: two candles lit on a side table and a book in hand, curled away from Olivia’s side of the tent.

Her damp underlayer proved tightly resistant to being ripped off, but once she did she found the folded pile of thick resting clothes to slip on. She heard only the sound of a page being turned as she clothed herself.

“You have read the same book multiple times since we landed here, and you still won’t tell me what it is?” Olivia asked, watching her hands slip buttons into holes.

“It is of no concern to anyone else but me,” Cassandra replied, the hint of fatigue in her voice earlier more prevalent now that she was in the relative privacy of her sleeping space.

“It is beyond me how you can stomach it time after time,” Olivia sighed, picking up her wet clothes from the day and piling them off to the side. She then crawled onto her knees on her blanketed cot, hands going up to her hair to release it from their pinned twists and braids. She heard Cassandra huff some air through her nose.

“Just as you stomach the terrible existence of wyverns, Inquisitor, of course.”

“That is unfair. I did not shriek like Bull says I did. I fell and the air got knocked out of me.”

“Yes, because air sounds like a high-pitched cat caught by its tail.”

“Well at least someone understands.”

Cassandra tilted her head to eye Olivia from over her shoulder, and her look was met with a soft smile. She raised her brow a bit before returning her gaze to her book, licking her index finger and turning the page.

“This is a fine way to say thank you for covering you while you, as you say, fell mid-battle.”

Olivia scrunched her nose, feeling a sharp jab from one of her hair pins as she untangled it. “You could take it as a ‘your welcome’ for when I covered you during the Templar ambush by the southern camp.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra muttered bitterly under her breath, “pathetic bastard.”

Olivia giggled, finishing the last batch of pinned up hair and running her fingers through it, scratching her itchy scalp. Pulling up the sheets for her to slip in between, she led with one leg followed by the other until her body was snugly under wraps. It had not always been this comfortable between them. The first week of Crestwood was mostly professional association in both the thick of battle and elsewhere. It wasn’t until Craer Bronach’s capturing, and the set-up of a more robust post, that things had began to shift. Whereas Olivia used to dread the chance of being cot-mates with the stern and sulky Cassandra, her moods had since lessened in hostility. Some nights were colder than others, still, but they were quickly becoming the exception and not the rule.

“Do...do you like the story that much then?” Olivia asked as she rolled onto her back, hands playing with a curled strand of her hair.

Cassandra furrowed a brow, twisting her shoulders over so she could look at her, book held steady and close to her chest. “Obviously.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t have to be stiff about it.”

“It isn’t often I allow people to know of my interest in reading. You have proven a most haphazard exception. Forgive me if I come across as defensive.”

“You, defensive? Never,” Olivia scoffed, rocking a bent knee side to side.

“Very funny, Inquisitor. May I return to reading now, or am I to endure more of your provocation?”

“You’d miss out on another pleasant conversation with me?”

Cassandra simply stared, unimpressed. Promptly, she rolled back around to the position she was in before, eyes perusing for the line she left off on.

Head tilted with offense, Olivia gasped. Was it sincere, or merely to provoke more reaction? One might never know for sure.

“Fine! I see the way the cards have been dealt. Sleep soundly, Seeker, on your pillars of salt and mysterious fiction,” she declared before rolling onto her right side, tucking herself away and out of sight of the Seeker’s harshness.

A few minutes passed with nothing but stubborn silence between them. Well, silence and paper between fingers. Olivia spun as she always did, echoing Varric’s advice like a daydream on loop. Turns out, trying to make new friends was a lot like re-learning how to walk, and in this case, Olivia was trying to counteract months worth of stubborn crawling.

But, one thing she could count on was Cassandra’s enthusiasm. It wasn’t long until the quiet was disturbed by hummings, soft gasps, and the occasional growl of discontent. Olivia had curled into the fetal position, arms cradled against her chest, listening to it all. Where once she would have been supremely annoyed, there were new emotions in play. Relying upon an old trick that had yet to fail her, she reignited conversation.

“If you are so defensive about me knowing what tickles your dismal humor, perhaps I may offer an exchange of information.”

Cassandra paused, eyes glancing up at the tent roof. “What makes you think I am interested in such a thing?”

Olivia grinned. “If you have embarrassing information on me, as I do you, we would not be so enticed to betray the other’s confidence.”

“Inquisitor, there is nothing about you and your private affairs that I wish to know. If I did, I would simply consult Leliana.”

“Oh, come on, Seeker,” Olivia said as she rolled back onto her back, hands across her stomach. “I surely don’t have to just get myself into bar fights for you to meddle, now do I?”

“Meddling and security are different things entirely.”

“Hm, yes, as are pleasures and hobbies.”

“Why are you so interested now, after two weeks here?”

Olivia snorted. “The lake is only so entertaining and picturesque, I suppose. Come on, don’t be silly. An eye-for-an-eye, as it were. You warriors love that kind of egalitarian thing.”

Cassandra smirked humorlessly, snapping her book shut as she rolled flatly onto her own back, concealing it against her abdomen. The loose fit of her purple, long-sleeve tunic shirt provided enough cover for it, though not for other areas, like her collar bone or the top of her chest. Olivia glanced her way without knowing this, so when she did, she had to blink a few times to center her eyes on Cassandra’s.

“Did you just call me...silly?”

Olivia bit the side of her lip. “Maybe.”

“No one has ever called me that, and for good reason.”  


“Well, maybe they should. Everyone is silly, from time to time. If you’d agree to my deal, you’d know how I have accomplished it.”

The Seeker’s eyes narrowed, and she stiffened up her shoulders against her pillow. “I have no interest in deals, Inquisitor. You have made it perfectly clear in the past you have no desire to have any sort of vulnerabilities between yourself your allies. What has gotten into you, I am not sure, but what I do know is that I do not regret refusing to drink that wine at supper.”

Olivia held her breath as she hit the rhetorical wall she had helped build between them: the wall of professional differences, sprinkled by dodged feelings. This was her fault as much as it was a product of Cassandra’s stoicism, and as her face softened from its coaxing charm into one of self-consciousness, she was faced with the impasse as she had often been when it came to communications: continue to push forward, or run.

The two women both in their own way turned their attention up, looking at the tent roof above their heads.

“I burped in the face of a Templar during my Harrowing,” Olivia admitted in a stiff monotone. Deal be damned, apparently.

Cassandra’s eyes widened, but she did not break her stare upwards. “You did what?”

“I burped. I was nervous, and I burped.”

A pause of awkward silence filled the room. Olivia closed her eyes, chastising herself in her head. _Olivia, what in the blasted...you pick this of all things? Why couldn’t you say something else, like tripping on a log or something?_

Just as Cassandra was about to reply, Olivia cut her off with an anxious tone. “It was after supper when they called me in for the process. I had been nervous about it for months and they chose bed time, of all times, to summon me. Well, I come in, and the Templar took me by the arm to lead me, and he shook me, and...and I burped. I was nervous...and I...Cassandra, are you laughing?”

Cassandra, who had been stifling a chuckle under her throat since the midway point of Olivia’s confession, tilted her head away from her direction, rolling her lips closed. “I have...I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was listening.”

“How is it you never so much as smile in broad daylight but you manage to laugh every time I expose some measure of human imperfection in your presence? Honestly, Maker, you’re more impossible than I get flack for.”

“It was your decision to talk, Inquisitor. I was hardly twisting your arm.”

“No, that only happens for first impressions in dank prison cells.”

“Yes, well,” Cassandra said, stretching her legs and shoulders as she returned her eyes to the roof, “much has changed. Yet there are times I still wish you were in the stocks.”

“Oh, how endearing. And yet much stays the same. Goodnight, then, if you’re just going to giggle like a schoolgirl when I dare to be honest.”

Olivia then pulled the blankets to rest higher, across her chest to help insulate her from both the cold and now her embarrassment. She tossed her arms above her head, laying them in around and atop her hair spread across her pillow. _So much for friendliness, then,_ she thought. _I only know how to make an ass of myself._

Just as the silence had taken hold again, a surprise unfolded.

“You must never utter a word about this to anyone, or else.” Cassandra’s voice, as serious as that first day at Haven. Olivia opened one eye, but did nothing else. She heard the Seeker take a breath, and decided to remain still, lest she scare the flighty Nevarran away.

“It is one of Varric’s tales. Swords and Shields...the latest chapter.”

Olivia’s mouth immediately widened into a gaping smile, and she turned her head towards her, unable to resist. When she did, she looked upon Cassandra’s side-profile, her expression soft and insecure. It baffled her, but she once again refrained from speaking.

“I...I started reading it when we were tracking Hawke’s whereabouts. It’s...literature, but it’s...it is smutty, literature. It is…vulgar and...magnificent…”

“I…” Olivia began, clearing her throat in a gesture of formality, “I see.”

At her subtle response, Cassandra shot a more stern glare her way. Not the worst or scariest she had ever done, but it was up there.

“I have been reading it to figure out what could happen next. This one ends in a cliffhanger...it is most frustrating. I know Varric must be working on the next one, he must…” she stopped herself, and looked down at the book she held between her hands. She lifted it, revealing the cover art finally after Olivia had not so much as sneezed in its direction without Cassandra using herself as a human blockade.

Olivia watched her, an eyebrow raised so far it could have leapt off her forehead. Part of her was relieved to not be the only one in to tell something mortifying about themselves, but she was also a bit in awe. So, Varric, the person Cassandra had nothing but bitter enmity towards...he authored one of Cassandra’s prized possessions. The world was truly a Maker-forsaken knot of ironic existence.

“Well, Seeker,” Olivia exhaled, leaning back onto her pillow. “I have to hand it to you, you make a Mage with nervous indigestion feel like a poised Empress.”

“Ugh, there is nothing embarrassing about enjoying romantic literature. If it weren’t for Varric, I would not be so...discrete.”

“No, no. I get it. We women all have our shortcomings.”

“My interests are not shortcomings. Romance is not simply the hobby of ladies in skirts philandering around in gardens. It is about passion, being engrossed in the pursuit of an ideal. Even someone like you, who looks down upon art and writing as menial, is implicated.”

Olivia opened her mouth, ready to supply another clever quip, but in the aftermath of Cassandra’s rant she found herself stunted. _Even someone like me, she says; she has no idea what romantic culture can do to a girl raised in its idolatry._ She glanced at her through her periphery, a new stinging sensation in her chest. The kind of feeling that comes from a sense of slight and injustice.

Her fervor was only halted by the look of sincerity on Cassandra’s face as she gazed at her in return. Even with her defensive air, the look in Seeker Pentaghast’s eyes spoke to the ardor she described with precise fortitude. The candlelight flickered on the both of them -- their respective irises both different kinds of hazel, and windows into two different kinds of emphatic and stubborn souls.

Cassandra never could have known the pang she caused in Olivia’s nerve, and in that moment, the Inquisitor stopped herself from punishing for it.

“You are right,” she said softly, departing from her clever banter from before. “Forgive me for sneering. I admire your conviction.”

Faced with her unexpected empathy, Cassandra’s face relaxed, still reserved but not harsh. Her mouth widened, releasing with the upheld tension in her jaw. She lifted the book up in the air more, tilting it downward for her eyes to look upon the cover again.

Seeing her disarmament, Olivia grinned with assurance. It was as though the fog had settled down below to the ground, clearing the way between their two sides. For Olivia, the palpable nature of it, even in her magic with the way her mana calmed within her bones and muscles, made it real. She had pulled the thorn from her side; rejecting her ego proved not-so-disastrous after all.

Olivia sighed silently, her arms slipping underneath her covers and resting over her chest. Calmed and content with the way that particular sparring match between them had ended, she closed her eyes, readying herself for some meditation to pass the time.

“If...if it would be agreeable to you, I could read some of it out loud.”

Keeping her eyes shut, Olivia giggled, her shoulders bunching a bit as her chest bubbled with humor. “You, reading me lewd literature, Cassandra? Could someone even as taciturn as you keep a straight face?”

“I...well, not exactly. Perhaps you are right. That was shortsighted of me” Cassandra shook her head, opening the book to track down the page corner she had bent last.

Slitting her eye open just to peek at Cassandra and the way she was busying herself after that most peculiar offering, Olivia smiled and nestled in deeper into her cot.

“If you could find one or two scenes that are not heinously draped in eroticism, I would be amenable to hearing such prose.”

Cassandra froze, hands mid-page turn. She glanced for a moment towards the Inquisitor, who looked like a sleeping maiden with her golden hair around her face and the way her complexion was lit by the candlelight. Her eyes were closed; for someone who did not sleep, she looked rather restful. The Seeker lingered on the sight of her for only a moment, before the unexpected sensation of kindness melted her sense of self-preservation.

Believing she had no witnesses, she grinned broadly, and took to searching through the pages. “There is one that I can recall. But, I am sure I can find it.”

The section was several pages long, a battle scene set at a fortress positioned in a mountain. The writing was a bit rough around the edges, but Cassandra did the romantic nature of the diction justice. When she wasn’t yelling orders or criticizing strategy, her voice proved warmer than Olivia had ever known it to be. There was a breathiness to it, something she could get used to. When the reading was over, Olivia did not bite back with the sharp wit she was known for. For once she would give her mouth a rest, even if she couldn’t give it to her mind.


	33. Child's Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During another day in Crestwood, Olivia takes the opportunity to create a detour in her and Cassandra's operation, stopping in the village to check in with the infirmary. During their stop, Cassandra comes face to face with a rather precocious little girl. For once, silliness is a part of their schedule.

When stationed at Craer Bronach Olivia spent most every morning stealing away to shore of the lake. When she consulted Vivienne for advice on training her magic, the Enchanter’s words were surprisingly simple: to understand your prowess, you must understand your environment. “One cannot muster the abilities of a Mage without understanding both the ways we fit in and stand out in the spaces we occupy, darling. We bend the rules of reality.”

Reaching the rocky shore she dropped the satchel she had brought, along with her staff. Stripping down through her coat, breeches, and thermal underlayer, only her linen smallclothes remained. The morning air was crisp and unwelcoming, but not enough to deter her. Incrementally she stepped into the water, first with her feet. Shivers went up and down her body, but for a Mage, that could be useful. Step after step, she went in deeper. Running her fingers across her hair to make sure it was tidy in its braids, she reached hip-level with the water and felt the current start to shift her weight on her behalf. Her smallclothes shorts becoming soaked, clinging to her skin and blending in with its tone.

Here, she wasn’t a Circle Mage, or even Inquisitor. Here, just as she was all those months in the Hinterlands amidst the water, she was a student, and an embodiment of elemental potential. Closing her eyes and placing her hands on the water’s surface, her magic brimmed with excitability.

First things first was control. Placing her open palms on the water surface, she closed her eyes and imagined shifting the water around her, creating a crater around her feet and then around her body whilst the water flowed around her invisible barrier. Reality bent to her mind’s eye, and soon she was standing bare and dripping in the middle of her own island of dry lake bed. This was a practice in focus and flexibility as she would gradually make the crater wider and wider around her. This used to be strenuous to simply repel the water from her body, but now she could stretch it out a couple of yards from where she stood still. As the circle continued to enlarge she took care not to get too excited -- this was a reactive maneuver, and the subtlest shift in her moods could put her off balance. 

Her favorite part, though, was when she flipped her palms towards the sky, releasing the water and allowing it to cave in on her. One refreshing splash that enveloped her, making her jump in the air as if she were in the clutches of Sea waves.

Olivia cradled her arms to her chest as her body adjusted to the oscillation in temperatures, her free hair partially soaked and letting droplets fall in her wake. She looked out to the view of the lake and mountains as the morning clouds began to expose the land to sunshine. It cast a generous ray of itself across her body, and she smiled, for it was like being greeted by the essence of who she wanted to be: bright, powerful, and missed when gone.

She closed her eyes again and held her arms out wide at either side of her body as she breathed in the fleeting warm energy. She would enjoy it for as long as the clouds allowed, standing resilient against the ebbing and flowing of the lake water around her waist. She was not as weak as she used to be: this body of hers, more scarred and bruised these days, had new curves and contours of muscle to account for.

Slowly, her arms went higher and higher until they were nearly vertical above her head. The sun still persisted, not yet done with greeting what lay below. Olivia hummed, her meditative habit taking shape as her mana stirred. Biting her lip, she gave into it, and opened her hands up facing the sky. Cupped balls of fire sparked, resting on her palms and spreading down her wrists, then to her forearms like feathers on wings. The collision of water and fire conjured steam to evaporate off of her body, creating her own cloud of mysterious fog as it where.

The lines of fire continued down to her shoulders, and she opened her eyes again when she felt a vibrating sensation behind her lids. She glanced down at the water with its distorted reflection, seeing two shining sources of firelight where her eyes should have been, entirely enveloped in orange and yellow. Yet, she was still able to see. There was a mixed entanglement of fear and vindication in her core, seeing herself like this and looking like the diagrams of Mages corrupted by power in Circle books. But there was no sense of evil or turmoil. Instead she felt at one with herself, like her body and soul were in tandem of their own volition. This is what a Mage must feel like to be able to breathe.

One more terror the Circles taught, that was anything but evil or abhorrent.

Olivia took a breath, and swung her arms down back around her sides, effectively blowing out her wings of fire. Closing her eyes and pressuring down her powers, the reverberations in her head stopped as well. Within a moment the clouds had retook the skies, and the sun was gone but not for all time. Once again, it was just her and the lake water, and a shallow breeze dancing through her hair.

Perhaps that could be enough for one morning.

\--

“I want to check on the village on our way through, before we move on to camp,” Olivia mentioned as she hiked alongside the Seeker. Given the recent mishap with Leliana’s scouts, and their potential double-agent in their ranks, the Inquisitor took a more direct approach in receiving her more delicate correspondences from the Council members. It paired well with her desire to have direct oversight on all the encampments, even if it was at least visiting throughout the day.

Cassandra walked tall even with her shield hooked onto her back, ever-vigilant. “You have grown fond of the townspeople, I have noticed.”

“I do, in fact, grow fond of people, Cassandra,” Olivia chuckled, adjusting the side of her cowl hood. “Do you not?”

“I...do not find that I am proficient in such things.”

“Like...socializing?”

“I was about to say diplomatic tidings, but, thank you for adding insult to injury.”

Olivia laughed as she skipped over a mud pile, one which the Seeker simply marched through diligently. Turning around to walk backwards beside her, Olivia folded her arms and lifted her chin, a playful expression on her face. 

“I think you’re just shy.”

Cassandra sighed, looking out to the view of the hillside to her left, before her attention shifted to Olivia testing her clumsiness yet again. “I am many things, but I am not shy.”

“Really?” Olivia tilted her head, “then why is it whenever the village children crowd us like the heroes they think we are you stay quiet and keep to yourself?”

“Children are rambunctious and clumsy, much like you, Inquisitor. Though, I have the option of keeping a distance from them.” Much as she was arguing, Cassandra let a faint grin appear on her face, a sign to Olivia that the fire was still of a friendly nature.

“Clumsy, me? I--AH!” much like a self-fulfilling prophecy, Olivia’s heel caved in and got stuck whilst stepping back into some mud, arms flailing at her sides trying to regain some momentum. She gasped a bit, the air in her chest released in surprise. But just as she was about to fall, Cassandra’s quickness proved a saving grace: in a split second she had a hand clamped onto the top of Olivia’s breastplate, pulling her back from the brink.

Once she had done enough to save the Inquisitor yet again from the perils of her own path, Cassandra released her hold. She made eye contact with her but kept walking, shaking her head in reserved amusement.

The Inquisitor, having been propped back onto her feet rather like a rag doll, turned around to face the path in front of them with a slight blush on her face. She stood there for a moment, hand on her hip and ego stinted.

“I, uh,” she said, clearing her throat, “I can see you rest your case.”

“Indeed,” Cassandra replied over her shoulder.

Sighing heavily, Olivia looked both ways as if to check for witnesses on the country trail, before jogging a few steps to catch up to Cassandra and her sturdy footfalls.

“Look, if you would only have a sense of humor, you would find being around people to be much more enjoyable. That is all I am trying to say.”

“While that is encouraging, Inquisitor, I will leave that capability to you.”

“Well, fine, then be a stick in the mud.”

“A stick in...Inquisitor, where on Earth do you get all these sayings?”

Olivia shrugged her shoulders as she swung her arms from front to back, clapping her hands together. “Children, of course.”

Cassandra huffed, and focused on the oncoming decline in the trail. The village was not too far out, and that meant an hour at least would be spent whilst Olivia found every little small thing she could to be helpful. It wasn’t entirely unremarkable, or disdainful, for the Seeker to witness. She just knew admitting it would only give the Inquisitor more fodder for her to tease. So, she kept quiet, and the two walked the rest of the path down to the village gates, another friendly conversation under their belt. That made, what, three total?

\--

The Inquisitor’s stop was the small infirmary cottage, refurbished by the Inquisition after the Mayor skipped town. Walking in, Olivia was relieved to see that only two of the five beds were occupied. The dank and dismal environment Crestwood had once been had also proven miserably fraught for the sick and injured. Now that things had changed, progress was being made in more areas than just war.

Olivia spent a good fifteen minutes discussing various issues with the Healers, all the while Cassandra stationed herself against the wall by the doorway, arms folded and face stiff. The cottage in general was cleaner and warmer with a fire going, and despite her apparent resignation, she was impressed by the changes.

In the middle of her subtle admiring, she felt a tap on a buckle on her hip. Flinching, she peered down to see a small girl, no taller than just above the Seeker’s mid-thigh. She had brown hair tucked in pigtail buns, and her dress was a simple grey color with a dirty ribbon around the waist.

Cassandra blinked, not entirely sure what was expected of her as the girl stared dauntlessly.

“Yes...child?” she asked, leaning away from the wall.

The girl put her fingers to her mouth, eyes wide like dish plates. “Are you...do you fight?”

Cassandra’s mouth opened but she did not respond at first. It had been a long time since she had to understand the mumblings of small children. Part of her wondered if the Inquisitor had set up this little girl to provoke her after their conversation on the trail.

“I...yes. I do.”

The girl grinned, her face lighting up as if the sun shined upon it. “Can you teach me?”

“I am afraid you are much too young, child,” Cassandra replied bluntly, but with a subtle softness. “Where are your parents?”

“They are in the...the yard! Yes, the yard,” the girl stuttered, a bit more bashful. “They don’t want me to fight. But the boys down the road, they pick on me. I want to fight them.”

Hearing her reasoning, Cassandra’s heart ached a bit. Suddenly a part of her was being melted and made malleable by this girl’s plight, and it was rather unexpected. She couldn’t be any older than six or seven years of age, and already she was being compelled to fend for herself. Such a perspective was not wholly unfamiliar to her.

Cassandra gazed back at the Inquisitor and the two Healers in the corner, still busy discussing with whatever it the topic was. Believing she had no audience, she took a breath and returned her eyes to the girl who, despite being so petite, looked earnestly hopeful. She crouched down onto her knees to be at a more even level with her.

“Little girl, I am afraid that the type of fighting I do is not ideal for disagreements between friends.”

“So...I cannot borrow your knife?”

“My knife?”

The girl pointed her finger towards the longsword attached to the Seeker’s hip. Following with her eyes she realized then what she meant, and it made her chuckle softly. The girl grinned in return, slipping her thumb in her the corner of her mouth.

“That one. So they won’t attack me.”

“They attack you?” Cassandra’s voice went a bit lighter, then, breaking with her stoic facade.

“Yes. They pull my hair and call me a...a g-goat. A goat, my Lady.”

Cassandra held her breath, now wishing she had less sense than to not pick a fight with small children.

“No, you cannot borrow my knife. But, what you can do is this,” she said, gently reaching and taking hold of the girl’s hand and removing it from her mouth. Her hand was barely big enough to fill the bulk of her own gloved palm, and she folded it into the shape of a fist, her thumb resting on the side. “The next time they toy with you, you hit with your thumb on the side, and not in front of your knuckles. That way you will not injure your hand. And keep your chin still and tucked a bit.”

The girl’s grin grew into a smile, then, as she stepped back and held out her hands. Clenching them into fists like the Seeker had showed her, she looked ready for fight. Her zealousness to follow direction was both bitter and sweet to say the least.

“Oh, I’m coming for you, Lysander,” she growled. “Can you teach me more, Lady?”

Cassandra shook her head, rising back onto her feet. “Once you are older, child, you can have a...knife...of your own, and then you will have more than enough to learn. For now, it is best to keep things simple and do them well.”

The girl pursed her lips and let her hands fall to her sides. Dutifully, as if she had seen a soldier do it in passing, she saluted the Seeker, admiration glimmering in her eyes.

“I’m gonna. I promise!”

“Alright, soldier,” Cassandra smirked at first, before returning to a serious face, “you are dismissed to the custody of your parents. Go on, now.”

“Yes, my Lady!” the girl bowed, feet scuffing the floor as she ran off into the great unknown. Cassandra sighed with relief, reaching back and rubbing her neck. Maybe children weren’t so terrible after all. Maybe they had their upstanding qualities, and she should remember she was once one, too. Maybe she...

“I saw that.”

Once again, Cassandra did a surprised hop step, turning around to see Olivia standing there a few feet away with her arms tucked behind her. She was leaning forward, chin raised and showing off her smug grin.

Faced with the disclosure of her less-than-professional conduct, Cassandra swallowed and straightened up, wiping off the side of her hip as if to look busy.

“I was simply answering a question, it was nothing--”

“Seeker,” Olivia giggled, “did you just instruct a little girl on how to punch someone?”

Cassandra let out a cautious, bated breath, before she remembered what she was good at. Stiffening her shoulders and standing tall, she reformed both her stature and her facial expression, becoming stern again.

“If you must know, I did. Self-defense is an important skill-set, and I was offering advice. That is all.”

Looking unconvinced, Olivia nodded slowly and started to circle around her, sauntering around as she judged just how serious she truly was. She walked indulgently slow, as if she was savoring a sweet taste on her mouth: a taste of vindication both ripe and ready. Cassandra watched her, maintaining eye contact until she was at her back. Finally Olivia was back in her line of vision, leaning her shoulder into hers as she came around to face her again.

“Hm, most astute and generous of you. So demure, too, considering you probably just made that little girl’s week.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Yes, perhaps. May we be off to camp now?”

“Yes, _my Lady,_ ” Olivia shook her head, her pitched voice mimicking the girl’s endearment.

“Ugh.” Groaning a bit, Cassandra rubbed her gloves on either hand as Olivia lead the way out the door, one last wave of farewell to the Healers in the infirmary before heading outside. Once in the open air, however, the truth of Cassandra’s impact became clear. Swiftly, they were cut off by a small group of girls led by the one who had approached her. They were giggling and smiling as they ran to meet them.

“Inquisitor! Inquisitor!” one called out, “wait!”

Seeing them all, Cassandra’s embarrassment grew into mortification. Her eyes widened, mouth agape as they all huddled in front of them. Olivia hung back, folding her arms and putting her hand to her mouth as she stifled a loud laugh.

“My Lady,” the girl with the pigtail buns bowed in front of the Seeker. Her friends followed suit, gazing up at her like she was some paragon. “I told my friends what you told me and...and they wanna learn, too!”

“Yeah!” they all seemed to say in various tones and levels of excitement. There must have been five or six of them, all in dark colored frocks and bare feet.

Cassandra stuttered, at once overwhelmed with the attention she so ardently tried to avoid. She glanced over her shoulder at Olivia, who was quiet but with raised brows, biting her composure. Her reaction was dreadful enough, without the fact that she was now pinned between a rock and a hard place.

Returning her eyes to the gaggle of children she blinked, not sure what would be the right thing to say. Children were so fickle and impressionable, what if she made one cry? Maker, what if they got angry, what then?

“I...little girl, I thought I dismissed you to your parents.”

“Yes, but I found my friends on my way…” she smiled, swinging her shoulders from side to side. “Please?”

“I would...love to, but the Inquisitor and I have important business away from the village, and--”

“Now, now, Seeker,” Olivia interrupted, folding her arms and stepping forward to stand alongside her. “We have a few minutes to dispose of for important needs. I can think of nothing more dire than training the next generation of brave, courageous warriors, huh little ones?” Olivia smiled upon them. Eagerly, they all nodded their heads and yelled words of affirmation. The Inquisitor dug the hole deeper, then, for Cassandra to either sink or swim.

“Inquisitor…” Cassandra whispered from the side, “is this some vengeful game you are playing on me?”

Olivia smirked, reaching back and patting her on the shoulder. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

“What would you have me do? They are staring at me.”

“Follow my lead for once, and try to laugh. They can smell fear,” Olivia replied, tilting her head to the side. Even as she was getting sick thrills, the Inquisitor tried her best to be sincerely encouraging. Winking at her ally, she turned back to the girls and yelled off orders. “Alright, recruits, we have five minutes to show you how to punch the broad side of a barn. Come with us, and keep those feet moving! I want to see heels and toes off the ground!”

Olivia clapped her hands, and at once the girls all turned and ran for the nearest barn house across the road. She followed behind, looking back at Cassandra who hesitated to follow at first. Giving her another look of clever assurance, Olivia convinced her to follow. Knife, shield, and all.

\--

What was originally five minutes promised turned into a half an hour, and what was once regimented training turned into sitting, playing, and talking. Instead of Olivia having the center of attention, though, the girls were instead fascinated with the Seeker, who was ferociously encouraged to once again recount the story of how she saved the Divine from the clutches of a dragon. Sitting on a stool with legs spread apart, and with the girls sitting on the grass surrounding her, not a single head could be turned away from the warrior they had all come to revere as if the sun shined out her ass.

“...And that is the story.” Cassandra at last finished, taking a breath.

The girls all began to whisper and mumble, questions immediately coming forward. _How did you do it? What did the dragon look like? Was there a handsome Chevalier?_ All questions Cassandra would be otherwise fatigued to hear from adults. But, on this day, she found herself bizarrely amused by their curiosity.

“I am afraid there was no Knight, but there was a very helpful and kind Mage who...helped greatly, among others of his kind who were there. The dragon looked like all the rest, angry and full of teeth. However, one thing that was unique was that I did have longer hair in those days, sort of like yours, Melisande.”

The girl bit her lip and shook her heels up and down, having played with a strand of her hair the whole time, her grip tightening around it when the Seeker alluded to it. In her face, Cassandra saw a lot of herself, though she was careful not to let sentimentality overrun her senses.

“Seeker!” one of them, a girl by the name of Helga, called over her shoulder as she sat on the ground.

“Yes?” Cassandra replied, her attention called to the present moment once more.

“Thank you. I...I wanna be you when I grow up.”

The other girls chimed in, saying thank you in some form or another. Agreeing, too, with Helga's desire. Their gratitude and exuberance were surprising after all the time they spent orbiting Olivia’s sweet disposition. Cassandra smiled and sat up a bit with newfound pride, blush brewing in her cheeks in spite of her ego.

“Of course, Helga. It was my honor to train such dedicated minds,” she replied in a warm tone, scuffing her boot in the dirt as she shifted her weight in her seat. 

Several yards away and leaning up against the nearby fence post, there was Olivia watching with amusement. The hesitating introversion of before seemed to be long gone. Her gamble to bring together two seemingly antithetical energies had paid off after all. Even though this was not the first time she had heard the story, it being retold for the eyes and ears of children made it more moving to her. It was as if she were hearing it for the first time, only it did not echo and get lost behind the many walls she had built between her sense of compassion and Cassandra’s existence.

As she kept her warm sympathies to herself, for a moment she made eye contact with her. Something about Olivia’s face, the sweetness of it, the way it seemed to say 'thank you for going along.' But, in return, Cassandra’s appeared to reply with a thankfulness of her own. Their gazing lasted only a couple of breaths, before reality set in again.

“Alright, young ones, it is time for Seeker Pentaghast and I to be on our way. Say your farewells!” The Inquisitor proclaimed, gesturing her hands outward.

“Aw, no!” Helga whined, along with her friends who all began to pout.

Cassandra laughed softly as she gazed back down towards the children, dusting off her thigh. “No complaining from recruits. Look alive and follow orders.”

“Ugh,” Lily spouted, rivaling her new Mentor's ability to express disgust. “Yes, my Lady.”

Olivia suppressed another laugh as she rose to her feet. One by one, the girls all went to Cassandra with dutiful, but warm hugs around her neck. The once rigid and unforgiving Nevarran hugged them back, arms wrapping around them and holding them close. It was a heartwarming sight after so much struggle and uncertainty.

Once they had all said their goodbyes for good and vanished off to their respective dwellings, again Olivia and Cassandra were back on the road walking together. Just as they crossed the threshold of the village gate, Olivia elected on conversation.

“The way they all begged to play with your ‘knife’ was hilarious,” she commented, eyes on the dirt path ahead of her.

Cassandra smirked. “Hilarious until one of them suggested they cut their hair with it.”

“Sweet Maker, really?” Olivia gasped.

“Yes, and another wanted to try to slice through the wood with it. Where do children learn to be so casual with dangerous objects?”

Olivia laughed, unable to hold it back anymore. “I am not sure, Cassandra, but something tells me you were just like them when you were their age. How about you answer that question.”

They came down a slanted hill, taking care not to slip in the pooled mud that seemed to be everywhere, waiting to cause a trip like the one Olivia almost experienced.

“And what about you, then, Inquisitor? I saw the way you handled the sword. Where is your affinity derived if you were trained as a Mage in combat?”

“You think Mages only know how to carry shiny sticks? If you must know, from years of daydreaming while watching my Father practice. But, mostly, Blackwall training me in the mornings.”

“Blackwall trains you?” Cassandra looked at her, brow furrowed.

“Yes,” Olivia smiled, returning her look. “Solas used to train me for magic, Blackwall trains me in military exercises, Sera is teaching me flexibility, and now Vivienne and Dorian are helping me with my Mage talents as well.”

“How...do you have the time to manage all of that and your duties as Inquisitor?”

“The same way you manage your own, through sheer stubborn will.”

Cassandra arrived at the edge of the path that became an embankment, the terrain growing more uneven as they neared the north camp. Her laughter was a hard-won concession, but one she took pleasure in. Olivia flanked her, keeping a couple steps back as she, too, surveyed the scenery for all its hard-won peace. Before them was a lush field of green, curving and concaving in on itself until the shoreline of the lake flattened out. The sky was clearing up above, and the warmth of midday was fast approaching. Scattered, broad fern trees subtly swayed with the wind while undergrowth blanketed the ground around them. The air smelled of hay and grassland now, where it used to wreak of flooded, stagnant swamp.

“I was the youngest in my close family, so I did not often see children younger than myself. When I did, it was certainly not to teach battle skills.”

“What was it for, then?”

Cassandra’s jaw stiffened a bit. “Learning how to be just like everyone else: lazy, pompous, and restricted to traditions.”

Olivia’s brows lifted, her holding the top of her hood against her head in the uptick of wind. “You and I have that in common, then, I suppose.”

“I do not know why it feels so strange for me to be around them other than the sensation that comes with it. I cannot explain it. The words evade me. But, I did appreciate it, as unenthusiastic as I was. I suppose I have you to thank, Inquisitor.”

Cassandra did not peel herself from the view, electing to preserve some sense of self-preservation in not allowing Olivia to see the look in her eyes. There was a moment of pause between them, where the Inquisitor stared at the side of her face, but did not push or provoke.

“You know why I love children and horses so much, Cassandra?” Olivia asked, taking in a breath of fresh air.

Stepping to the side and peering back at her, Cassandra acknowledged but did not reply. Once she did, Olivia rubbed her right upper arm amidst the chilly breeze around them, and answered her own question:

“I love them because they are a sober reflection of how they are treated. You can never hide from the truth of yourself. If you are unkind, or brutal, or cruel, they will react with unapologetic truth. When you look into their eyes and see your reflection, you know that is the inescapable nature of who are.”

Cassandra raised a brow, resting her weight onto one hip. She let a moment pass, just staring at her as she watched the horizon. Taking in her expression of both cleverness and light.

“Is that more wise advice from your Father?”

“Ahah, No,” Olivia said softly, “that is but my own silly musings of the world. But he would have agreed, I think. Come on, let us get to camp before I find some way of testing your patience again.”

Cassandra kept her eyes on her for a moment longer rather than jump to action, a rare moment of slow pace in her otherwise decisive style. But, once the task set in, she nodded and stepped away from the hill’s edge. Both returning onto the middle of the path, the allies walked together with a keen pace and steady minds for whatever it was that laid at the end of the road. 

As they descended, Olivia had one last bone to pick, but with affection: "So, who was the hot Mage?"


	34. The Good Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Skyhold, plans are underway for construction in the fortress. Olivia has a vision for the tower to be used as a Mage's center of study and work, but the decision requires sign-off from all Advisors in order to be considered fair. Her conflicts with her Commander take center stage as she walks the line for her goals.

_3rd of Ferventis, 9:41 Dragon_

_Journal,_

_We have just returned last night from our mission in Crestwood, which by all logistical accounts was a success. It feels good to be back in the mountains, and I never thought I would genuinely feel such a way. I will miss the village children, though. Perhaps duties will take me back some time._

_It is now the thick of summer, but up here you’d never know. I always feel melancholic about it, what with missing Summerday year after year. The flowers and the perfume in the air, the pretty tapestries draped all over the place. The holiday meant seeing the everyday folk of the empire, and not just swimming around in the same suffocating pond with the same masked faces. It was one of the few occasions where I felt proud of being Orlesian -- oh, the perils of youthful ignorance._

_Mother was always so obnoxious about the ceremonials and the processional to the Chantry. I was supposed to join the year before I was sent to the Circle. I remember detesting the ridiculous white gown she’d have me wear; I always looked like a overstuffed white dove._

_Quite ironic now, considering what my nickname turned out to be. Well, anyways._

_Progress rebuilding here at Skyhold has continued, and I have been in consultation with several Mages about our designs on the decayed tower on the Battlements. We have all agreed that creating a space where we can encourage study and experimentation for magics would be best. Some are concerned that it would be a mere recreation of the Circle, but I am adamant about it being an inclusive and open space for all to come and go as they please. A place where scholarship and inquiry are encouraged, and Mages can come to know their own talents without being taught fear. I am particularly enthusiastic about how it may help the younger generation, the children of the Inquisition Mages who have known little else besides tumult within a world they did not choose to be born into._

_Cullen will probably raise concerns, and I will have to face them head-on. I cannot circumvent tension forever. Dammit. Luckily, Leliana has informed me of a time and place where he may be the most agreeable._

_Meanwhile, Sera said I should just fill his office with butterflies. I’m not entirely sure what that would accomplish, but, I am all for options should things turn sour._

_Still no word from Theia or the girls. It has been several months, and I am starting to worry. Theia was always the worst at letters, but if she had found them I should think they would make up for her inconsistency. Part of me wants to have people sent after them, but I do not want to cause stirrings. I am also -- and this is between you and me, Journal -- a bit scared about how they would react to me this way. So much has changed, and I no longer believe as I once did that I could be both Inquisitor and the woman they loved as their friend. If I was made to choose, it would break my heart to its foundations._

_Our eyes are now on the Approach, as well as reports coming in from a place called the Emerald Graves, located in the Dales region. I have long heard tales of this place as a child, but it was almost always in reverence for the might of the Exalted March. Now I know better than to call what is and always will be a sacred Elven burial ground, a mere trapping of my nation._

_Oh, I should be writing these responses for Josephine’s office in the morning. Enough for now._

_O.B.S._

\--

The crisp air of dusk at Skyhold was one of Olivia’s favorite times of day. Summer in the Frostbacks differed little from the rest of the year, except for the way the garden smelled: elfroot, ferns, crystal grace harvested from abroad all soaking in the sunlight and diluting the air with subtle fragrance. It was there, a mere couple of hours before the Council was to meet for the evening, that the Inquisitor found the Commander in the outer rotunda sitting by himself with nothing but a chessboard. She had seen allies accompany him before for games -- Dorian, even Leliana on one occasion -- but this time he was his own opponent.

Olivia, dressed in black breeches and coat with a grey hide vest on, stuck out like a sore, gothic thumb amidst the greenery. She did not even attempt to sneak up on him, lest she have one more notch in her reputation as being flighty and inconsistent. He looked up and caught her at once as she rose up the stairs, a look of skepticism on his face already.

“Inquisitor, I…” he said, sitting upright, hands gripping the arm rest. “I was just…”

Olivia grinned, waving her hand lightly in the air. “Cullen, it is no concern of mine, please, do not fret.”

The kindness in her voice was most unexpected, and as his chin tilted a bit, she understood he’d need more convincing before disarming his attitude for her completely.

“May I have a seat and join you?” she asked, standing a mere couple of steps away from the chair she wished to occupy.

“Oh,” Cullen, replied, “of course. Please.”

Olivia exhaled with relief, nodding and taking her place across from him with little fuss. In return, he straightened up his posture, leaning forward slightly.

“My...my siblings and I played when we were young. Sometimes I practice to keep up my memory of it.”

Olivia sat tall, away from the back rest, her hands coupled on her lap. The same sensation that she felt off of him was still there, months after she had first noticed it. It was more aggravated this time, as if it had endured more and become spread thin. She couldn’t exactly place it, or understand why she was so sensitive to whatever it was he was hiding. But, for once, she didn’t let it dissuade her from being in his presence.

“Your siblings? I take it you have many, then.”

Cullen smirked, taking a piece in his hands and putting it back in its original square. “I have three. Two sisters, Mia and Rosalie, and my brother, Branson. We grew up in Honnleath.”

“Honnleath. I have never heard of it.”

He huffed. “No, I don’t suppose such places are discussed as tourist destinations for the Orlesian elite.”

“Well, we are a mighty busy people, enjoying the views of our own mirrors.”

The linked eyes, then, and Olivia offered a crooked grin. Unexpectedly, that got a chuckle out of him. Her shoulders tensed at the sound of it, though she did her best to conceal it. A man laughing in her presence, at least one she did not fully trust or know, was not exactly something that evoked unsullied memories.

She watched quietly, recollecting herself as he put the board back into its original shape.

“Do you play, Inquisitor?”

“Yes, but I am afraid I do not have the mind for it.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed a bit as he slid the board more towards the middle of the table. “That is what they all say.”

“Who exactly is ‘they,’ then, Commander?” Olivia replied, leaning forward with new interest. The light in her eyes softly flickered, enticed by a challenge.

Cullen merely shrugged with one shoulder, leaning onto one side of his chair. “Humor me.”

\--

About midway through the game both sides were tentatively surviving. Olivia had lost more pieces, but she remembered a maneuver from one of those books stacked on her couch to keep her head above water. Cullen did appear slightly surprised, but it was not underestimating her. Rather, it was that she kept up with the game without causing an argument wherein one of them would flip the board over and stomp off. And to be clear, it would not be the Commander who would do the honors.

But, as time ticked away, the nature of Olivia’s presence weighed heavier and heavier on her mind as she feigned benign friendliness. It was more difficult to pull off than she originally estimated, faced with his more relaxed nature.

“Cullen,” she said, breaking the silence as she moved a piece diagonally. “I am afraid I did not simply come here to enjoy a game.”

The Commander glanced up at her, chin tucked from diligently staring at the board. “I figured as much, though I wondered how long it would take for you to confess. Pity, I was just about to turn the tide.”

Olivia sighed, leaning away. “It concerns the tower reconstruction. I believe it would be...best, and most promising if we utilized it for a study and experiment space for Mages. Somewhere they can do work away from the courtyard grounds, where they aren’t under so much...scrutiny.”

Cullen’s grin faded, but he was was not quite angry or outraged like she expected. Instead, he, too leaned back in his chair, bending an elbow against his armrest. “You would dedicate more resources and space to the Mages at the expense of the troops?”

“The troops have the grounds, the barracks, and the meadow clearings beyond the gates for which to train. We have outfitted it all. The Mages have nowhere central to their work except perhaps the library, and that is no space to conduct trials and tests.”

“Trials and tests? Inquisitor, what kind of work are you planning, exactly?”

“We have some of the most talented Mages left alive after the rebellion here in our ranks. Maker knows what we could accomplish if we--”

“That also means the potential for disaster, Inquisitor. Mages without proper security and safety are a liability to the rest in our ranks who do not share their abilities. Would you raise the stakes farther than you already have?”

Olivia’s heart began to race. More talk about her visions and daydreams; it used to intimidate her, but now, it was starting to enrage her when people would refer to her will as mere fantasy. Her hand clutched the rim of her armrest as she tried her best to compose herself.

Cullen’s stare was unfaltering, as always.

“Commander, this is not about me or my tastes for a world which is, to you and so many others, considere impossible. This is about fostering a place for those I consider my people.”

“And your role insists that you must consider your ‘people’ as everyone, and not just your fellow Circle Mages.”

“If I considered my people as all of Thedas I would have deserted months ago, for the world that has overseen my subjugation is not worth saving on the grounds of its singularity. I am here for those who continue to struggle, who deserve to live and have a future free of the constraints the Empires have built.”

“These are...considerable goals, Your Worship. It is the methods by which you have tried to accomplish them that I take issue with. Your troops, former Templars and otherwise, place their lives on the line for you and this cause just as the Mages do. Yet you favor one over the other at every turn. How is a legion of soldiers supposed to march onward toward whatever perils we may yet face, when they know their leader sees them as more disposable?”

“A tower is hardly a sign of my contentedness with slaughter, Cullen.”

“It is more than just the tower. It is your attitude, the tower is merely one more step. They struggle as you have yet you do not include them in your sanctimony.”

Olivia scrunched her mouth onto one side as she sucked on her teeth, looking down at the half-done round of chess that still awaited them. Her face and her head were warmer, and her hands almost clammy. All the while she felt his eyes on her, perhaps inspecting her for a sign of guilt or shame. Something she wasn’t ready to give.

“My struggles are not mirrored in every single person here, and I understand why and how. I am loyal to everyone here, that is my responsibility. But I cannot cut the ties between myself and my past. Not now, not ever. I am who I am, and they know that.”

“Do they? Or could the Mages explain to the rest of them well enough?”

“Cullen!”

“Inquisitor.”

Olivia took a sharp breath, connecting her eyes with his. “They are my people. Not because I was born of their blood, or named after them. The Mages are my people because they were when the those who were supposed to be, rejected me. Our bonds are of necessity as much as anything. I want to honor what kept me alive, and also be a good leader to all. I believe I can do both, but I need support from all, not just a few. My loyalty is not like that which you harbor for the Templars and their ideology that leaves us in opposition with one another.”

Cullen’s jaw tensed, brow furrowing around his eyes that became more piercing the angrier he became. She was familiar with this expression, very familiar.

“The Order gave me a life and taught me almost everything I know. I cannot deny how it has shaped me any more than you can the Circle. Not everything that life gave me was a wash. And I have confronted it since the day I left, for better or worse.”

“Have you also confronted your skeptical disdain for Mages should they move an inch in any direction with their autonomy?”

“While you make those moves, Inquisitor, someone has to ensure innocent lives are protected. The Circles of Magi were a way of controlling collateral damage. I never once said they were perfect.”

“Being imperfect and being brutal are not synonymous quirks, Cullen, it is erasure of a most betraying confinement. I want the Mages of the Inquisition to know what it is to learn and grow without fear, without self-hatred. I want something that can help shape the future if we prevail. They--we, deserve as much. I do not know enough about what drove you to leave the Order, but I can imagine it is of a similar sensation to what I feel when I see the people I was once rank-and-file with have a chance to make their destinies anew. How they laugh, and smile, and look fulfilled in what they do here. We have promised them a cause worth a lifetime, and I...I intend on providing a chance for them to salvage one after this. If the tower does not become a reality I will find new ways to pursue that hope, so help me Maker, I will reshape the mountain we rest upon to make them a place in this world. I will not sleep, I will not eat, I will leave nothing unrequested. That, I promise you.”

Cullen was still, his deadpan expression leaving Olivia in the dark as to whether her words were resonating. In the thick of it, it was clear this was not simply about a construction project or even old arguments. It was something more, something deeper and left untouched for sake of sensitivity on both their sides.

He paused, eyes lowering to the board in front of them. There was a new chill in the air as nightfall inched closer and closer over their heads. No matter the darkness, Olivia’s eyes were illuminated with a steadiness even he could not ignore.

Olivia took a breath, her chest raising tensely as she looked away. She was bargaining with her own emotions. Andraste’s chosen or not, her heart was still tied to the essence of who she was as the world treated and admonished her.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said, breaking the stalemate, “I will agree on two conditions.”

Olivia’s eyelashes fluttered as she blinked, focusing her slightly blurred vision on him. “Yes?”

“First, I ask that you take time from your private training with Warden Blackwall and instead, do it with the troops, in the courtyard, like everyone else. See what they are put through, and know them. Enough with the separation.”

Olivia’s eyes widened a bit, but she maintained her stoicism well-enough. She could see in his expression the understated audacity he had in his request. In both admitting to his observations of her, and his commitment to forthright conduct, he caught her earnestly off-guard. Asking a Mage to rub elbows with men and women who may or may not have once been employed to subdue her should she prove “troublesome” was no small psychological task. _How perfect, he probably thinks he could get little laughs out of watching me trip up or something silly like that,_ she thought. 

“Mm,” she replied, awaiting the final of the two asks.

His brow quivered up a bit. “Second, you provide detailed communications of all operations that are to take place in the tower. If Inquisition personnel are to coexist with your...projects, they have the right to know what goes on.”

“Absolutely not,” Olivia bit. “We may as well erect another Circle, then. They should be able to work freely in tandem with our needs.”

“It is for the safety of both them and others, Inquisitor.”

“I will not have my people write and request the ability to do what they are good at as if they are on a leash whilst doing so. I will have detailed knowledge of all functions and tasks, and I will reach out when I deem it necessary.”

“And how am I to trust that you won’t keep secrets out of spite for me and others who do not sympathize with your mindset, then?”

“You will have to do what you have been encouraged to reject, Commander. You will have to trust a Mage to be able to determine what is and isn’t a danger to the welfare of all.”

Cullen stopped himself from replying, his jaw clenching a bit. “You would care so little for the need for structure when it comes to magic and all of its hazards? You, who have the most to lose should things go wrong?”

“The fall from grace comes for all fabled heroes, Cullen. If I have anything to lose, it is the happiness and meaningful peace of those who depend upon me to ensure that they can prosper again.”

“You have all the words but scarcely any sense.”

“Funny, I could have said the same to the Templars to whom I was a charge, though it probably would have killed me.”

Cullen scoffed, rolling his eyes as he glanced to the side. The back-and-forth equivalencies were the most abrasive on both their tempers, yet it was the easiest ammo to toss when either of them were on the ropes.

Olivia let out a sharp exhale, rubbing her face with both her hands. Her expressive aggravation made the side of Cullen’s mouth upturn a bit in a sorry grin.

“What are you sneering at?” Olivia asked, peering through the gaps in her fingers.

“Er, nothing,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I am tired.”

“As am I,” Olivia conceded, letting her hands rest on her lap. “I know I have proven myself many things, Cullen, but I would hope I have also proven myself trustworthy despite all the odds saying I would not be. I have nothing to gain from things going wrong, with Mages, soldiers, or otherwise. If you trust me to be a communicative leader, I will…I will learn to trust your diligence as a Commander.”

Cullen huffed a bit. “Can I get that in writing?”

“No, but you can regale Josephine and Leliana about how you bested the Inquisitor at a round of chess.”

They both paused, making eye contact again. Olivia then looked down at the board for resolution. Grinning sorely, she reached and reversed the move she had made before they started arguing, a move which would have secured her two most valuable pieces for at least several more turns.

Watching her retraction, Cullen lowered his brow, chewing on the side of his cheek as she withdrew her hand.

“Inquisitor,” he said, reaching his own hand over the board, holding it suspended, “if I am to trust your leadership, you should do better than back out of a solid strategy.” At that, he grabbed the piece she moved, placing it back on the square where it rested in triumph.

Olivia’s lips parted in a gentle frown. She was going to say something, something clever but bittersweet. But, when he offered her a crooked grin and another chance, she decided to grin back and let it go. There were many battles and tiffs in the future to rest up for, after all.

“You know Orlesians always love a good game,” she said, mocking herself as she leaned forward with newfound interest in the challenge before her.

“Believe me,” Cullen sighed, “I know.”

Smirking, Olivia gave one solemn nod. “I agree to your first condition. Consider it our first compromise, Commander.”

“Maker’s breath,” he exhaled, moving a piece forward, “it better not be the last.”


	35. Coalescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations are underway for the upcoming mission to the Western Approach. Olivia has two poignant conversations with some of her most indominable allies: first, with Vivienne on the perils of alliance and politics. Then, with Leliana, concerning the consequences of faith and self-determination. Olivia struggles to make sense of how her path will fall into place.

It was a rare occasion when Madame de Fer invited you to enjoy tea and company, and when such an honor was bestowed, you declined at your own risk; even if you went by Lady Inquisitor, or Andraste’s Chosen. Olivia had, luckily, grown unafraid of Vivienne’s advances and presence since Haven enough not to shrink in the face of such things. Tea, politics, with a sprinkle of theoretical magic, was hardly a frightening inconvenience anymore. On this particular morning they were perched in their typical spot, chairs brought out to the balcony overlooking the grounds and a small round table between them with tea plates and cloth napkins. Olivia had long stopped wondering where Vivienne got all her finery; a resourceful woman was to be respected and not interrogated. 

“I still disagree with your choice not to adorn the Hall with a throne and tapestries befitting an Andrastian. Why not push the envelope, darling, since you carry the moniker of being Andraste’s chosen,” Vivienne said, tucking a leg underneath the other.

“Again, Vivienne, I do not see the point in feigning piety for a creed I do not follow.”

“One does not need follow if they are tasked with leading. A Sheepherder must still know to differentiate the noises of fear and bliss amongst his flock, even if it doesn’t live off the pastureland with his own stomach.”

Olivia smirked. “You’d equate those who believe in the Inquisition as sheep, Madame?”

“Your followers can be anything they wish in order to satiate their hunger, Inquisitor. Never forget that Andraste was revered most after her body burned.”

Olivia pursed her lips as she held her teacup close to her chin, looking out at the jagged horizon before them. It was a crisp and clear day, not one cloud in sight to hamper the frigid sunshine. Wrapped in a blanket over her shoulders clothed in her resting coat, Olivia felt contented enough. Vivienne never allowed herself to be seen with a hem or sleeve out of place, she herself wearing freshly pressed resting clothes that looked as though they could have just been taken down from a mannequin in the Capitol marketplace.

“Well, you will have to comfort yourself knowing I backed out of installing the Fereldan furnishings despite our locale,” Olivia teased, taking a sip of her strongly-brewed black tea. Bitter and cold, just how she liked it. Her cup looked far less pleasant to the visual appetite in comparison to Vivienne’s, generously dosed with cream and a bit of sugar.

Vivienne shrugged one shoulder cooly, raising a brow. “We have enough fur and rugged terrain to attract pests evading the cold. It appalls me that the Commander neither confirmed nor denied that he washes that animal he calls a cloak fur.”

“I cannot afford to pick at his patience anymore, if the complaint comes from anyone it’ll have to be the Ambassador.”

“Such plights are beyond salvation, my dear.”

Olivia giggled, tilting her head back as she set down her cup. The women glanced at each other with smart expressions before surveying the view once more. Vivienne arched her back from her chair, resting a hand on her lap.

“Now, concerning this tower you have designs on.”

“I know, Vivienne, there will probably be tons of abominations and travesties and I am quite foolish to insist upon such a project.”

“Your talent for reading a situation has clearly plateaued, Inquisitor, if you honestly believe that to be my position.”

Olivia raised her brows, crossing a leg over the other. “Oh?”

“Indeed,” Vivienne’s eyes narrowed, “I see the merits of such a plan, given the proper precautions. You do plan on enforcing oversight on their goings-on, don’t you?”

“I will be in communication with the Mages about our goals and interests, yes. But I will not enforce censorship.”

“Hm. Most intriguing, considering your mimicry of the Circle’s infrastructure.”

“A place of learning and congress does not a Circle make, necessarily. We deserve to pursue knowledge that isn’t imbued in self-loathing or fear of one’s own power, Vivienne. A Mage that is terrified of their own ability is like a storm scared of the shadows.”

Vivienne hummed a sound in her throat, deep and humoring. Tilting her chin upwards as she gazed back at the Inquisitor, her shoulders straight and still, she worked her quintessentially regal body language.

“How your mind twists and turns, Inquisitor.”

“It has the dexterity thanks to discourse with capable allies.”

“Yes, but I fear you trust others to have the same capability rather liberally for someone who must carry the destinies of more than just what remains of the Mages’ messes.”

Olivia took a breath, shifting her weight onto one side of the chair as she leaned against the right armrest. Placing her elbow on it and her fingers to her chin, she distracted herself with the movements of people on the grounds below them.

“Have you received my notes on the Approach?” she asked, diverting the subject.

Vivienne sighed lightly, hand thoughtfully smoothing out the fabric of her robe. “Yes, I look forward to trekking the miles of sand and disparaging heat at your service.”

“Hmph, you and Dorian both, though I am unsure whether it would be best to ask him along.”

“And who are you sure of, then?”

“Well, you,” Olivia shrugged, scuffing her boot along the stone floor as she contemplated her options, “I am thinking Blackwall would be most helpful since we are pursuing Warden activities. Then, most likely Cassandra.”

Vivienne chuckled under her breath, folding her arms. “Speaking of shadows. You are quite fond of bringing the Seeker along for most every mission under the sun.”

Olivia snorted as she sat up straight, leaning away from the backrest as she busied her hands, reaching and taking her cup and plate into her lap.

“I am not ‘fond’ of anything. I bring allies abroad because I cannot fight the wilderness as a one-woman army. I need them.”

“The word ‘need’ is quite precise a choice, my dear.”

“How so?”

“Well, consider how heavily you have depended upon Seeker Pentaghast’s advice and foresight throughout this whole affair. You scarcely move an inch without her flanking your maneuver. Is there something motivating you besides practicality, or are you simply a glutton for argument?”

“I…” Olivia gasped, shaking her head with a bashful smile on her face, “I am not a glutton for anything, least of all argument. I am quite capable of navigating my responsibilities without any one specific person in the fold.”

“Careful, my dear. It was not a sword toss that bestowed upon you your title. I am not out to indict you for your choices. In fact, I think it rather clever. Cassandra is...robust, but despite her dissention from the Chantry and respectable society, she still carries a hero’s clout, and her piety weathers the storm her reputation has endured since this all began. She is an ideal counterbalance to your taste for subversion.”

“Are you insinuating she’s needed to rein me in, Vivienne? If so, you have ruined my taste for both tea and conversation this morning. I could gladly go down and get the air punched out of me in sparring rounds than be condescended to.”

Vivienne hummed that sound again, ambiguous but attentive. Olivia was young, but she was cutting her teeth on the perils of discourse quickly. Her dedication was what inspired sympathy from the Enchanter; though, that sympathy almost always expressed itself via criticism.

“My attentions are always on what can be perceived, my dear. Perception is reality and reality is perception. Even if you do not exchange power outright, the semblance of submission can do it for you right under your nose.”

Olivia's chest stiffened. “And how did you circumvent that philosophy as a Lord’s mistress, Madame?”

“The better question would be to ask how I refined such a method in my tenure at First Enchanter of the Imperial Court of Orlais. You are not the first nor the only woman to insist on being more than the beds she occupies or the bodies she pleasures, Inquisitor. Do not assume the doorway is unlocked just for you, as if you are a pioneer for parlaying how society values your body in order to advance your goals. Your fall from grace into brothels and slums is where some have had to begin their climb towards consequence."

Olivia gnawed on the inside of her cheek, nodding solemnly as she looked out to the sky once more, her knuckles turning pale as she gripped her cup handle. “Forgive me, Vivienne. I spoke out of turn.”

Vivienne made a “tsk” sound with her tongue, taking hold of her own cup and sipping softly from it. "Airing out bed linens hardly makes the tea more palatable. The matter still stands.”

“I do not follow how this has to do with my working relationship with the Seeker. She has proven steadfast and knowledgeable. We do not always see eye-to-eye, in fact most of the time we disagree vehemently. I depend upon her like all of my allies, including you.”

“You must always make a mindful ledger of how those around you whom you trust influence your choices, my dear. If you rise on the testimony of a visionary Mage but surround yourself with the opinions of the Chantry’s coattails, you will march yourself towards a precipice and swan dive over it if you aren’t careful.”

“This is quite sympathetic talk from an Enchanter who would reinstate the Circles and Templar jurisdiction over them, I must say.”

Vivienne laughed low, holding her cup in the air. “Reimagination and reinstatement are two different ambitions. You would do well to learn the difference.”

“I am afraid most do not truly understand the contrast until after the deeds have been mistakenly done. Which is why I am proceeding with caution, and taking the time to learn from all perspectives. Cassandra is but one of many.” Finishing her last mouthful of tea, Olivia set her cup back on the table and lowered her head. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must continue said pursuit and get back to work.”

Vivienne keenly side-eyed her, setting down her cup as well. The two rose from their seats at the same time, standing face-to-face.

“Take care, Inquisitor. Remember what I said during that night in the Mire. For people like us, beds can become crowded, even by those we think we leave on the other side of the door.”

“And who are people like us, Vivienne?”

The Enchanter grinned softly. “Women who expose even an Empire’s hypocrisy by virtue of their survival.”

Olivia felt her palms go cold as she stood there, taking in the Enchanter’s advice. Vivienne was endlessly intelligent and observant of the details in politics that Olivia did not yet trust her own self to pick up. That, and having Mages around her who were unapologetic proved a steadying force for her in the face of so much unknown. What was once callous judgment between them had started to evolve into a most fierce, if not ironic, conspiration.

“Thank you, Vivienne. Please inform me if there is anything you need.”

“Oh, trust me, Inquisitor, I shall.”

Olivia smiled with reservation, nodding her head one last time as she dusted her hands off and headed back inside. Walking away, her shoulders were heavier, and her mind was foggy with new insecurity. Should she position her allies for the sake of image, or allow the tide to rise and fall with the challenges that came along? Until Vivienne illuminated things she had lost sight of how she had favored Cassandra. She was, after all, the person who detained her, the person who invited her on board for this cause. It was not a collaboration born of congruent beliefs or tastes, and in many ways the Inquisitor’s bonds with her team were still malleable, still delicate.

\--

“Everything appears arranged and ready for your departure in four day’s time, Inquisitor. Have you finalized your requested team?” Leliana asked, sifting through papers in her hands alongside Her Worship, who stood overlooking the war table. Olivia’s hand were gathered at her back, enabling her to pensively press her fingers into her palms as her mind circulated. The Enchanter’s words to her that morning had scarcely left her mind’s eye even with all the tasks and duties she had carried out all day.

“I have already asked Vivienne, and she has agreed. I am thinking it would be best if we had Warden Blackwall and Sera come along. It will be a well-rounded team of skills, and Blackwall and I can continue finding traces of Warden activity he believes is out there.”

“Hm,” Leliana hummed as she flipped a page over, “A thoughtful evaluation. I will have notices dispatched as soon as possible, then.”

“Thank you, Leliana.”

The Inquisitor then began to walk the perimeter of the table, arms folding as she evaluated all of the little tokens across the map and its terrain. The Inquisition had grown and sprouted branches in its infancy. She was quiet as the image of what it could look like once both sides would be overrun by little metal pieces signifying resources, conflict, connections, or whatever else they would find.

As Olivia slowly paced, the Spymaster noticed her meditative attitude.

“Something troubling you, Inquisitor?” she asked, glancing up from her paperwork.

Olivia shot a look her way, as if she had been caught with food on her face or something subtly embarrassing like that. She slowed her walk but did not halt all-together, letting her legs swing slowly, one in front of the other as her posture swayed from side to side.

“I don’t need to tell you that I have a lot on my mind to be concerned with,” she replied gently.

“Of course. Though, you seem less...well, I would not go so far as to say cheerful, but your normal attitude employs a certain about of...energy.”

Olivia laughed under her breath warmly. “My Mother used to call them my little fevers. I would become so overwhelmed with lessons that I would simply grow quiet and absorb the information, spinning in my head until I grew warm to the touch. My Governesses used to worry that I was a sickly child.”

Leliana tilted her head slightly. “Were you?”

“No, not quite. But, when you are a young Mage eager to protect your secrets, a flare in fire magic can be passed off as a fever rather well if you know how to spin it.”

“That...is not surprising to me in the slightest. Though, is this how you feel now?”

Olivia pursed her lips as she stopped, leaning her hip against the edge of the table, her boot scuffing heavily on the floor. She never truly learned how to objectively tell if she was ‘feverish,’ and the only true indicators were a cold lady’s hand to her head and some Orlesian words about how she needed to be submerged in bathwater.

“I understand you have unorthodox beliefs on the Chantry and the faith as a whole, Leliana. Tell me,” Olivia said as she took an Inquisition marker from the table, holding it in her palm, “what do you say to those who choose not to follow Andrastian doctrine?”

Leliana grinned crookedly, organizing her papers into a uniform shape between her gloved hands. She then set them on the table in front of her. “I would say the Maker loves all his children, even if they do not honor his role in their lives. His power and providence are immeasurable, even if we mortals have tried in vain to administer boundaries.”

“You would say that even to those who have been subjugated by the Chantry and their teachings? Those who have come to understand that there is no inherently good purpose to its organization?”

“I believe there is an inherent goodness in faith as there is in people, Inquisitor.”

“Then where does it go when everything falls apart?” Olivia asked, shifting her weight onto both feet now as she turned to face her head on from the other side of the table.

Leliana sighed through her nose, putting her hands behind her back. “Inquisitor, are you deliberating something for the sake of our cause, or the sake of your own peace of mind?”

“I am doing both. I know I have resisted coalition with Andrastian culture and symbolism in my role, yet I am surrounded by people who fulfilled some of the most important roles in the Chantry hierarchy. I am...grappling, I suppose.”

“There is a reason we are not aligned with the Chantry with the way things are, Your Worship. There is much to change, and much we have yet to do. One does not simply absorb the identities of their alliances as an Orlesian adorns themselves with masks.”

“I never said I feel that they are masks, Leliana.”

“Perhaps, but I can see it in you, the way you struggle with your reflection. There is hardly a body of water or a pane of glass you do not take a second-glance towards.”

Olivia giggled a bit. “Could that not simply be vanity on my part?”

Leliana returned her humor with a grin, leaning her weight onto one hip. “Inquisitor, you may have a flare for the gothic, but I have evaluated you enough to know there are certain qualities you do not possess with conviction. False vanity is one.”

“How comforting.”

The two exchanged knowing glances, before Olivia left the table in favor of the stained-glass window across the way. As she drew nearer she saw the phenomenon Leliana referred to: a color, misshapen reflection of her face. Olivia half-halted, dragging a foot behind her as her eyes locked with her own in the colors of red and purple glass. The way her hair was ornately braided in twists and pulls out of her face, a small bump at the top of her head. Her black coat with fur trim on the vest hoot and sleeve ends. Her Mother’s eyes, distorted and contaminated with a magical expressiveness. She inhaled slow, lowering her eyes from the window.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana said, having watched her arrive at her dead end, “regardless of your faith, the Maker’s plans for you are as much an empowerment to you as a conflict. If you have ambitions, if you seek to make change, then do it; know that you are just as encouraged to do so by the faith as you are discouraged by its politicians who believe their doctrine matters more than that of the Maker’s will.”

Olivia swallowed stiffly, hands sliding up the sides of her thighs as she felt cold sweat on her palms. This would continue to be grueling as more adversaries fell to them. Time would tell whether she would break or bend with the implications of being Chosen by a hand that was also responsible for her suffering.

“I wonder if Andraste knew the sword she was falling on as a Mage seeking to change things,” the Inquisitor thought aloud, turning her shoulders towards the Spymaster.

Leliana smirked dryly and took a few steps to meet her on her side of the table. “The Hero of Ferelden is one of the most insightful and intelligent people I have ever known. Yet, not even she could foresee the ways in which the world would receive her sacrifices.”

“Do you…” Olivia hesitated, smiling a bit shyly, “do you miss her?”

Leliana halted, her eyes changing in their brightness as she looked off to the side. Her brow gently furrowed, but she appeared resistant to any further expression of blunt emotion. For some reason this area of her life was fascinating to Olivia, who for all her distaste in romance, found only compassion for Leliana’s grasp of it. The Hero of Ferelden, a Mage, a Warden, a person who was flesh-and-blood. Their love defied the intemperance of the human condition that Olivia blamed as the culprit for love’s inefficacy.

“Yes, I do. Always.” she answered after a pause, “but I understand why we must be apart. I have always understood, even if I did not agree. And when I doubted even that, I trusted in my belief that the Maker knows better than I to judge a path and whether it is worth the struggle.”

“You’re a stronger soul than I, then,” Olivia admitted, her hands going to her hips.

“Not stronger, Inquisitor. I...I would much prefer dedicated,if anything. And never in comparison to another’s path.”

Olivia looked up, locking eyes with Leliana in a rare connection of candor. Seeing the slight, and fleeting softness in them, Olivia smiled gently as a form of reassurance. Even if she could not stomach the scripture, when it came to those among her who believed, Olivia found it hard to grow callous. Her survivor’s heart struggled with this and the need for vindication that it displaced within her. Bodies were graves and cradles for the beliefs they conjured to survive.

“Fair enough. Dedicated and sovereign in your own right, then.”


	36. Parting Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the morning of the Inquisition's mission to the Western Approach. Olivia has one last surprise for Cassandra, who is for once staying behind while the Inquisitor and her allies take on the unknown.

The crew was up early the morning of to finish packing and leave for the Approach. Olivia had taken care to rise a bit earlier than the rest, to get ready and oversee operations herself: helping trunks be loaded, assisting people with their bags of belongings meant for the wagons, and helping stable hands tack up mounts. The four days in between finalizing her team and the departure day had gone by fast, with finalizing some construction plans, signing off on major paperwork for Josephine, and studying -- tireless studying of every piece of literature or research she could find on the deserts that lay ahead. Now, it was time to put the knowledge into praxis. The road would be long and ever-changing, but she was going to face it head on.

Coming down the stairs one last time after saying farewells to her advisors, Olivia noticed several allies standing amongst the fray who would not be going along. First, there was Dorian, arms folded across his chest as he awaited the Inquisitor at the foot of the stairwell.

“Dorian,” Olivia smiled, sliding on her second riding glove, “you will forgive me for robbing you of your fun, no?”

“That remains to be seen. Will you leave some Venatori for me to enjoy when I am at last called upon ages from now, or are you determined to hog the limelight?” he replied in jest, eyeing her from his most dignified periphery.

Olivia giggled, arriving at his side and looking out at the busy network of bodies moving back and forth the wagons like bees orbiting a hive. “I will send for you once we have the Warden situation under control...if we do, I should say. Who knows what is waiting for us to get hip-deep stuck in it.”

“Promises, promises,” he replied, swaying from side to side between his feet. “I will be waiting on bated breath, surely, Inquisitor. Appetite and sleep will evade me.”

“Oh, I know it will. Good luck finding someone else to provoke when you are both studying in the library.”

“Provoking is hardly a difficult venture. Some would say I run the gauntlet of it by simply being here. Though, it will make it less fun not having someone with the facial expressions of a panicked squirrel when you catch her using a logical fallacy.”

“I do not look like a squirrel!”

Dorian laughed a bit, twisting around to look back at her. Her blood boiled with affection for the Tevinter with a perfectly manicured intellect to match his precisely groomed facial hair.

“Dorian,” she grumbled, taking a breath. “If there is ever a doubt as to whether I am alive, simply deploy yourself and that nerve of yours. If there is an inch of care left in my body, you will uncover me.”

“If the world does not get torn asunder by a corrupted Magister, perhaps it would with the knowledge that it was a Tevinter who could resurrect Andraste’s Chosen by sheer virtue of jest.”

“Yes, well, all tumult considered, I will miss you. Try not to cause too much disruption, if you can possibly help it.”

“Help? Maker, what do you take me for, Inquisitor, a do-gooder called to a higher ethical standard?”

“Not that per se,” Olivia gazed back at him, a playful smile appearing on her lips, “I would say more, but I would not want you to cry tears of flattery before all these people.”

Dorian raised a brow, his teasing smile softening as he leaned onto one hip. He took one last look at the Inquisitor before bowing his head lightly. “Very well, Your Worship. Do be safe, I hear sand is a terrible medium for a grave.”

“Thank you, Dorian, I will try. Be well,” she replied, placing a hand on his arm for a moment. The two allies put down their sharp weapons of rhetoric to look upon each other as friends. Then, they went opposite directions: Dorian sauntering back up the stairs, and Olivia deeper into the throng of people to sort out affairs for departure.

It didn’t take much to find another of her comrades, of course: the Seeker watching as weapons and military supplies were loaded in an orderly fashion reflecting her standards. When Olivia laid eyes upon her though, and the way she stood tall across the courtyard while speaking with a Scout, her throat tightened. Cassandra was not wearing travel armor, there was no formal Inquisition emblem on her breastplate, no riding cape flowing behind her. Not this time. They had yet to speak since Olivia sounded off her orders for who would accompany her, and for some reason or other she feared the worst.

She approached her though with a bright expression and a smile, the concealment of her true anxieties all she could muster.

“Seeker,” she greeted, arriving just as the Scout withdrew with new orders.

Cassandra, alert and steady despite the early morning haze, took a step back and faced her. She tilted her head a bit onto one side, her attitude warming. “Inquisitor.”

“I trust whatever it is you are overseeing has been handled with acuity and a bit of old-fashioned intimidation.”

“That it has.”

“Good.”

As both women looked out at the mass of people and supplies before them, the Inquisitor realized that without them both going along with the mission, there was less to talk about. Usually there was discourse about logistics, sights on the way, or Olivia would tease her about her riding style or something to take the edge off the nerves of leaving.. Despite the absence of this, Cassandra did not seem to be a fraction of disappointed or slighted as Dorian was. In fact, something in the atmosphere of her presence was almost...encouraging.

“Are you sufficiently prepared? This voyage will be long, and the terrain will be challenging,” Cassandra asked at last.

“Well, is one ever truly prepared for something they’ve never done?”

“I...suppose you are right.”

Olivia grinned and rubbed her left upper arm. “I am sure whatever happens, something ludicrous will get us out of trouble, like Varric says.”

“Do try to have a bit more forethought than the kind Varric pretends to have, Inquisitor.” Cassandra lowered her chin a bit, still icey when regarding the rogue who had caused her more than their fair share of trouble.

Olivia returned her stare with slight amusement. How Cassandra did not find enough to entertain herself with via the drama of real life was beyond her. Why go looking for intrigue in novels when one could just look at the derision right in front of their noses in a time of war and apocalyptic ambiance.

“I trust you two will play well together in my absence,” she said in a clever half-warning.

“I am not a child,” Cassandra huffed, swaying onto one hip. “I am capable of maintaining my emotions.”

Just as the Inquisitor was about to respond, someone appeared with her horse. Losing her train of thought, Olivia smiled and walked forward, a boost in her step as she was eager to be reunited with her most beloved comrade. It had been too long since she had been in the saddle for a worthwhile endeavor.

“Thank you, Wilson,” she said, taking her reins from the man who dutifully bowed in return for her gratitude. He referred to her by her title before leaving. That left Olivia alone to giggle and be pleased with herself, holding her horse’s rein as the mare fiddled with the metal between her teeth.

“Peach, you are looking dashing today,” she said aloud, rubbing the front of her head.

Cassandra looked on from behind, a slight grin appearing on her face. The way the Inquisitor always lit up when it came to a few, specific parts of life never failed to be slightly endearing. Horses, magic, and testing people’s patience. So far, the list had proven rather brief. It was strange to think that a matter of months ago seeing the Inquisitor smile or be in jovial spirits felt like catching the sight of a ghost that everyone else seemed to have encountered by her.

“I am disappointed to hear you are still sore about Varric,” Olivia said, cutting through Cassandra’s quiet thinking to herself. “I had hoped the surprise I have for you would be better received.” She did not look back as she teased, choosing instead to adjust some straps on the side of the bridle. Peach’s hot breath fogging added a damp chill in the air around her, as she busied herself, fiddling with a small buckle that proved difficult to maneuver with thick gloves.

Cassandra blinked, taking a couple steps closer with piqued curiosity. “You have a surprise for me of all people? Maker, what does Varric have to do with it?” she said in her low, skeptical tone, already impatient with the antics afoot.

Olivia smirked as she finished the last pesky buckle, tossing the reins up over her horse’s head and neck. She the pivoted smartly on her hip to face the Seeker head on.

“Yes, if you must know. One I had to pull in a favor for, as well as promise several in addition.”

“Inquisitor, what have you gotten into now?” Cassandra sighed lightly, letting her hands fall to her sides.

“I do not know. Perhaps you can do me a favor and check to see if my saddlebag is packed, and then I can disclose my conspiracy,” Olivia replied, grinning with bright, mischievous eyes as she stood her ground. Both women stared each other down: the Seeker, rarely one for games, and the Inquisitor, a connoisseur of them.

“Ugh, if you insist,” Cassandra sighed, walking past her and directly to the packed full saddle bag hung across her horse’s back.

Olivia bit back a smile, lowering her gaze to the ground as she slowly spun around, following after her movements. She felt Cassandra’s eyes on her, and they exchanged one more bout of silent eye contact, presumably to convince the Seeker’s hesitant humor. Or, maybe it was Cassandra’s way of checking to see if it wasn’t all some gag at the last minute.

“Go on,” Olivia said, waving a hand. “I have a desert to get to, in case you didn’t know.”

Cassandra sighed, rolling her eyes as she finally reached her hands through the bag, unpinning the hide knot that secured the cover. At first, her gloved hands felt little else besides a canteen, some bottles, and a sack of what she assumed was dried meat or some other road sustenance. She leaned on her toes as she shoved her arm further back, still feeling nothing obscure.  
Olivia watched, feeling her stomach grow increasingly filled with butterflies that came right before a release of generous joy.

“I am not noticing anything tha--” Cassandra’s impatient conclusion was cut off as she gripped onto something dense, something with corners and a slight hollow sound when she hit it. She froze, then, and fell back onto her heels. Furrowing her brow, she took hold of the object and pulled it from the bag. In her hands was a book, hard covered and new. The artwork was familiar, a recycling of the kind her eyes had grown all-too-familiar with. It was the illustration from Swords and Shields, and it only took a second or two for Cassandra to recognize it and have her heart sink through her chest.  
She stood still, without words or harsh expressions to give, holding the book in both her hands in front of her. Even around all the people, amidst the hurried commotion of packing, it no longer mattered. A surprise properly executed rarely depended upon the appropriate or respectable atmosphere, even for staunchly reserved Seekers known for making mountains seem like piles of sand in their resolve. 

“Is...is this…? This is the latest chapter?!” Cassandra asked, turning to look at her. 

Olivia grinned, placing a hand on her hip as she rubbed her horse’s shoulder slowly.. “Like I said, several good favors.”

“You…” Cassandra was struggling to put together a coherent sentence. Quite a sight to see for anyone, but most of all the woman who orchestrated its fruition and was now holding back laughter. “You got him to finish the Chapter?”

“He was reluctant to do so,” Olivia replied, taking a step forward. “He said it was barely worth the parchment. But, he owed me, and after I...exchanged...some currency I had to give, he kindly obliged.”

Cassandra’s expression of confusion gave way to concern upon hearing Olivia’s euphemism. Almost as if snapped out of a trance of pure heartfelt flattery, she shot her chin up at once, making eye contact with her. “You did not do what you...I mean, you did not have to...”

Olivia furrowed a brow, silent at first. Once she realized what the Seeker got hung up on, though, she only laughed; low at first, but then louder as she put her hand to her mouth. Cassandra’s stoic and unimpressed reaction only made it worse, and she had to look towards her saddle to regain her composure.

“Cassandra, what do you think I do, go around ripping my clothes off to get business done? Varric is an ally and a friend. As are you. I do kind things for my friends, and they aren’t erotic. Well, most of the time.”

Cassandra shot one last critical look her way, but she could not look away from the book entirely. It was real, written, and ready for reading. She could enjoy it and not wonder when she could know the truth of the cliffhanger while they traveled. She went quiet, holding her breath as she held the first gift she had received in recent memory. It was not lost on her that it came from the woman she would sooner see sell off her secrets to the nearest tavern friend for a good laugh. Or would she? Once more, Olivia had defied expectations.

After a moment of awe, the Seeker took a step back to regain her bearings of what was going on around her. Olivia was tightening her saddle girth, one of the last chores to do before finally hopping on. Around them, People were getting last preparations done, mounting horses and climbing aboard the carriage and wagon. There was little left to keep them there besides last words and goodbyes. Usually, Cassandra was hands-off and decisive about these formalities, but Olivia had thrown a curve ball that left her disoriented in her feelings. It was all going faster than her ideal pace, now, and the ever-encroaching farewell was wasting no time for sentimentality.

“Well, Seeker,” Olivia huffed as she finished adjusting her stirrup length, pulling the irons back down to hang loose. “I suppose this is farewell for awhile.”

Cassandra flinched, straightening up her posture as she hugged the book to her chest. “I, ah, yes. It is.”

The look on the Seeker’s face was priceless: a combination of professional facade and genuine shock. It made Olivia giggle under her breath as she faced her one last time with her hand resting on the side of her saddle seat.

“Try not to go stir crazy with being out of the action, for once.”

“I can promise nothing, Inquisitor,” Cassandra replied dutifully, taking a step forward, “but we will work diligently in your absence. Do exercise caution.”

“Hah!” Olivia snorted, “I think we both know how capable I am of that.”

Cassandra grinned and shook her head once, backing up as Olivia placed her foot in her stirrup and mounted swiftly up onto her saddle. Settling into her seat and adjusting her loosened reins she offered soft cooing sounds to calm her excited side-stepping.

Once Peach’s anticipatory dancing subsided Cassandra came closer and took hold of the side of her bridle, allowing the Inquisitor to pull on her riding hood with two hands instead of one. Olivia shot her a smile in thanks while she readied herself, fitting the hood over her hair and neck just right. With little else showing besides her pale, round face and darkly-lined eyes, if it weren’t for her smile she would be rather frightening almost. That is, if you were planning on getting on her bad side.

“Do try to be kind to Varric. He did it with you in mind, not just me,” Olivia said as she let out a sigh.

“Is that an order or a favor?” Cassandra retorted.

“Whichever would compel you most effectively, Seeker. I leave it open to interpretation.”

One last scan of the surrounding assembly of people and equipment, and Olivia took the spare minute to soak it all in for her mind’s eye. Waiting on her word, the outfitted troops and Scouts stood by amongst themselves, and on the upper courtyard edge the Advisors looked on as they always did for departures. Olivia found Leliana and Josephine’s gazes and smiled, gently waving out for them. She was met with a resolute nod from the Spymaster and an endearing wave from the Ambassador. She then looked to the left at Cullen, standing dutifully by with hands on his sword grip. Her smile softened, but she bowed her head. To her relief, he offered her one right back, and with that she knew she was ready.

“Cassandra?” she asked rather bluntly, her eyes still on the surrounding courtyard.

“Yes, Inquisitor?”

“Promise me something.”

Cassandra tilted her head to one side, earnest interested. “...Name it.”

Olivia took in some fresh air into her lungs, feeling her hands grow a bit sweaty under her gloves. She was looking at the Mages, the people standing around on the upper courtyard and on the ground around her. Their faces of hopeful reverence for her and her allies as they were about to watch them embark on a new dangerous venture. In that moment the heaviness on her shoulders intensified. She swallowed hard and returned her gaze to the Seeker, standing by and ready. Her attention further solidified the pit in Olivia’s stomach that she was doing her best to suppress with a face of bravery.

“Promise me that if you see my people being mistreated or maligned, you will intervene. Intervene because I will not be able to.”

Cassandra’s face dropped initially, realizing the brevity of Olivia’s request. The Herald was proving her talent for surprises to be an ongoing effort. It suddenly hit her all at once that this was the first time she was leaving her behind for a mission, meaning Cassandra had never been given orders for the Inquisitor’s absence since the dawn of the Inquisition. It was a strange and unprecedented exchange for them both.

“I...I can promise that I will do my best to act with proper judgment and in good conscience, Inquisitor.”

“Good, then you will do what is right, and see that they are treated well, and not just fairly.”

They stared at each other for a short moment, Cassandra once again scrambling to put together words for the right kind of reaction. She did not expect such a request right before their leaving, and she surely did not ever think such an investment of trust would come from the Inquisitor concerning her fellow Mages. There had to be better people for this, people who did not have such sordid reputations with Mages and the Chantry. But, as Olivia looked her in the eyes without breaking or blinking, it felt as though she was the only person in the world worth trusting with this.

“I...I will do my best, you have my word.”

“Thank you. I hope I do not have to make that a command instead of a favor. I will be requesting word and copies of conduct reports from the Ambassador while I am away.” The slight addition of acidity in her tone indicated just how vital this oath was to the Inquisitor. It was all well and good to have the loyalty of a friend, but some matters were too important to leave on good favor alone. Seeker Pentaghast was one of the few people she could trust to understand that fine line she walked.

When the Seeker nodded with solemn respect in her eyes rather than insult, Olivia’s heart slowed in its racing panic. Then, it was perfectly clear. Relieved and reassured, Olivia smiled at her. The bitterness was poured over with sweetness. Having made her promise, Cassandra released her hold on the horse, backing off as she held the book to her side.

Olivia watched her, eyes linked until it was finally time. She took one last breath before raising her hand up into the air. Calling out loudly across the courtyard she ordered everyone to look alive, get themselves in order, and follow her lead. Heads turned, shoulders straightened, and ranks were formed. At her command the caravan got into shape almost immediately, and once she was satisfied, she grinned and waved her hand forward towards the open gates.

Filling into the posture of a regal leader, she kicked her horse into an energetic half-jog and rode towards the front. There she found Blackwall, also on horseback and looking back at her with a loyal, solemn expression. And with that, the Inquisitor took her place at the head of the proverbial beast, allies in-toe. Well, some, anyways.

And so another mission began, both lead by and in honor of a fair-haired Inquisitor dressed in clothes and eyes lined in black. The woman the people gossipped about, saying she stole from the night sky because it insulted her dark and illusive vanity. The longest road they had yet to traverse lay ahead, one with perhaps the most uncertain and fraught consequences thus far.

\--

Standing still as the group moved on out the gates of Skyhold, Cassandra was harboring something unexpected: emotions, for one. Secondly, the feeling of raised stakes. For what and for whom, she could not decipher. Only the anomalous sensation of dread and hope at the same time. These mixtures of conflicting energies had haunted her for months, but it was not until now that they conjured the image of a person rather than the entirety of Thedas looming across space and time.

Boots made footfalls behind her, but she noticed them too late to compose herself, or escape.

“So, Seeker, got some reading to do?”

Cassandra’s chest stiffened hearing the familiar voice that plagued her dreams and flashbacks to the time before the Temple, when things still felt salvageable.

“What do you want, Varric?” she replied in a low tone, keeping her eyes and shoulders facing the gates as the caravan became smaller and smaller on the bridge.

Varric arrived at her side, his quintessentially smug grin on his face as he followed her gaze off into the horizon. “Look, I know you’re not one for trivial things, like joy, for example. But I’ll admit I was hoping you’d be a bit soft after that show.”

“Not everyone gets what they want, Dwarf.”

“Yet here you are, chapter in hand.”

“I…! Ugh,” Cassandra groaned, leaning onto one hip as she finally glanced in his direction. “I suppose you are getting sick pleasure from this, aren’t you?”

Varric chuckled, folding his arms as he leaned back on the heels of his feet. “You heard the Inquisitor. We have to maintain some decorum, as Ruffles would say.”

“Just because we are expected to be civil does not mean I have to like you, Varric.” Cassandra was feeling nothing but stinging ego, until she glanced at the book cover from the corner of her eye. Looking back down upon it, it was already evocative to her: the way Olivia surprised her, the way she took notice and thought of her after she had allowed her to see this side of who she was. The time she took out of her day, or probably did, anyway. Just the thought of her...well, doing anything on her behalf. It was bizarre, but not in a negative way. 

“She really paid up for that, you know. You must have done something to get her to care that much. Makes me wonder if you are capable of friendliness after all,” he remarked, watching as the gates started to close.

Cassandra looked up sharply. “What did you make her do?”

“Now, now, don’t get all protective. She and I have had a thing going. Every time she needs a favor, she merely coughs up a good story about her life. I got three for that one chapter. Heh, that might be the highest revenue I’ve gotten for that mess.”

Cassandra gasped softly, tightening her arm grip on the book. Her sincere investment was palpable, even to Varric, who would normally like nothing more than be indifferently mocking towards her.

“In any case, with how secretive she is, I was surprised she coughed up for you.” He chuckled under his breath, “I thought she’d sooner draw on your face while you slept.”

Cassandra pursed her lips and looked away, staring absentmindedly into space ahead of her. For all of Varric’s faults, she didn’t disagree with him on that fact.

“Nevermind, Varric. I suppose...I should thank you. For this, I mean.”

“Now, don’t thank me. You should thank Firefly. I’m merely doing business; If I can get a kick out of it sometimes, all the better. Farewell for now, Seeker. I don’t want to hear any complaining about the plot or what happens when the Knig--”

“Varric, don’t tell me!”

In the face of her sensitive outrage he laughed, almost as if he knew before he even spoke just how to push her buttons. Which, knowing Varric, was probably the case. She eyed him from her periphery as he tilted his head up towards her, nodding once before stepping back and away from her. Once again all by herself, she released the air she held tightly in her chest. Her mind was lingering on questions she did not have the ability to have answered now in Olivia’s absence.

Turning around towards the stairs, she noticed Leliana and Josephine standing on the cylindrical platform overlooking the grounds. Leliana’s precise stare caught her own, and she noticed a knowing grin on her face. Feeling insecure out in the open, Cassandra frowned and held the book close to her chest, covered by her gloved forearms. Covering her own ass at this point was all for naught, and she knew it was well as anyone: nothing went on without Leliana both seeing it and developing an opinion on it that she would certainly use in a joke later at Cassandra’s expense. After all, before there was the Inquisitor to test her patience, there was Sister Nightingale.


	37. Sands of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weeks after leaving Skyhold for the Approach, Olivia resolve and fortitude are waning as she endures extended time in the desolate desert. The arrival of a new rotation of skilled allies lifts her spirits, though the erosive effects of her travels have continued to wear on her.

_28th Solis, 9:41 Dragon_

_Ambassador Montilyet,_

_Josephine, I know I have detailed this in my previous letters to you, but I must reiterate: I cannot think of a single reason to like this blasted place. From the moment we set out here it has been vicious dogs, Varghests, spiders, raiders Venatori, darkspawn -- I sound like I am listing a rough encyclopedia of every evil we face. This is so silly. This place has it all, except for a cool wind and a tropical lagoon to bathe in._

_As you have probably heard from Leliana, I am sending Sera and Vivienne back to Skyhold to confirm plans for the bridge construction across the gas fields. One more thing for that list I mentioned -- poison gas. Maker, I hope their traveling together does not prove...tumultuous; they seem to have been developing a civil dynamic here, but I know the desert has worn on them as it has me. In their stead I am trusting Leliana to send two allies willing to help me tie up loose ends here and move on. At this point, I will take anyone with a pulse and a weapon._

_It has also been weeks now, and I am still troubled by our encounter at the Temple. Are you certain you cannot find anything else on this “Lucius Erimond”? I trust you above anyone else to be able to obtain information on his background. Well, you and Leliana, of course. Hawke and Stroud should be returned to Skyhold by now. I hope they are fitting in. Hawke kept teasing that she would burn the tavern down and show the people what a real good time looks like._

_Beyond this, I cannot think of much else. The desert is jading to me. The only solace I capture is the way the night sky is full of stars and the air goes quiet in the dark. Even then, all I can think of is what lurks. At least with Griffin Wing up and running, we do not have to take turns squashing scorpions and spiders around each other’s cots quite so much._

_I am sorry for venting and being so unpleasant. You are the only person I write personally to, and it is a relief to know I can send my tired thoughts somewhere. Please convey to everyone how I miss them and hope they are doing well. While work is not done yet, I look forward to returning to the frigid mountains._

_Warmest Regards,_

_Olivia_

\--

Two and a half weeks after the Inquisitor sent her letter to the Ambassador’s office, Scouts reported an advance of their own banners and uniforms into the region, signaling the upcoming arrival of allies, troops, and resources. A Raven later confirmed the approaching caravan, and Olivia received the news with a tired, but relieved sigh. Standing on the Keep Battlements overlooking the canyon, she was joined by Blackwall, who heard of the confirmation shortly after she had received word. She was standing alone facing the sun, hands at her back and hair down and tousled around her neck and shoulders when he came up the stairs to see her. Even though the climate had proven unforgiving, Olivia never stopped wearing her trademark black coats and gear, nor did she shy away from working in the heat of the day. Her multiple bouts of sunburn were the price she paid with less and less sensitivity.

Blackwall proceeded with empathetic caution as he arrived at her side. “They told me they’re no more than a day’s ride away. How you holding up?”

Olivia did not take her eyes off of the horizon, nor did she move an inch to greet him. Instead, she filled her chest with air and stood tall. “Well enough. It’ll be good to have refreshed equipment and more hands on deck.”

“All due respect, I asked how you were holding up, Inquisitor, not the equipment.”

Olivia smirked humorlessly, her chin lowering an inch. “Your consideration humbles me, Blackwall, but I do not need to be checked on. Trust me when I say I am doing just fine.”

He huffed a bit through his nose, unconvinced. “I’m no oracle, my Lady, but I know you well enough to see that is some of your bullshitting. You haven’t been laughing, you eat at night when everyone is asleep, or so you say. And, to be honest, you look like a burnt piece of bread.”

Olivia gasped, shooting him an offended look for a spare second. Whether she was offended at his words, or the truth of them, remained to be seen. The Inquisitor did look measurably different from the person she was the day she left Skyhold: her skin was a mixture of tan and peeling sunburn, her hair a tad lighter from the sun bleaching it day after day. She had lost a bit of weight, but gained muscle. And those “rumored” meals were more often than not: just rumor.

“Should I be laughing? I am unsure what’s funny about miles of sand and a bitter Varghest hogging a watering hole. Oh, and then there’s the Wardens, and their binding demons like they have implemented a new buddy system for training. Have I forgotten something? Oh, yes, that’s right, the hills singing to the tune of hundreds of meandering darkspawn…” Olivia was going to continue, but she ran out of air and will in her gut to keep going. She cut herself off before either tears could fall from her eyes or fire could erupt from her palms. Neither would be particularly serving of her “I have it together” facade.

“Well, when you put it like that,” Blackwall replied, tilting his shoulders to face her, “perhaps you should laugh.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Olivia glanced at him, abrasive until the moment she saw the look on his face: the lifted brow, the soft eyes, and the smart grin hiding underneath his facial hair. She couldn’t help but soften up, and choke back a laugh as she returned her eyes to the horizon.

“Blackwall, how am I supposed to come across as an angry, jaded leader when you prove to the world just how silly I am, that I laugh at the idea of singing darkspawn?”

The Warden chuckled, shifting his weight between his feet as he folded his arms across his armored chest. “I don’t think it matters just how much you laugh or act silly, Your Worship. Anyone who sees you out there with your staff and those eyes of yours lighting up like torches is enough to convince.”

“No need to flatter my vanity, Blackwall.”

“I mean it. You got the guts and the skill. Don’t let anyone make you believe less. Even if that someone is a fumbling piece of darkspawn out in the dunes.”

Olivia bit down on the side of her cheek as she turned to face him, the man who showed her how to fight -- well, one of them, anyway. The man who drilled her and worked with her when she hardly trusted a soul around her. Throughout the weeks she had endured the Approach, there wasn’t a day that went by where she did not thank him for being there, or being helpful in some way.

“It is good to know at least one Warden to trust and befriend,” she said, reaching and resting a hand on his shoulder guard.

Blackwall returned her gaze with a bit of soreness in his eyes, and he looked away when she mentioned his title. Olivia assumed the antics that had unfolded with at the Tevinter temple ritual were troubling to him. They hadn’t been easy to cope with for her, after all. She couldn’t blame him for feeling it was all a bit closer to home with his job.

“Well,” she said in a lighter tone, changing the subject, “at least you didn’t have to fish my harvesting knife out of the wilderness again, right?” she grinned, her chapped lips cracking a bit as they did. Patting his shoulder before stepping back, she slowly made her way towards the stairs to head back down and back to work.

As she crossed behind him, Blackwall furrowed a brow. “A knife?”

Olivia stopped, hearing his confused tone. She twisted around to look back, head tilted to the side. “My knife, remember? Did you not find it for me on the Coast, after I lost it in the water?”

Blackwall stared for a moment, as if trying to recollect. His eyes narrowed a bit. “Inquisitor, it was not I who found your knife in the sea.”

Olivia giggled softly and shook her head. “Well, I just assumed...you were the only one who saw me. How could it not be?”

“Wait, you were never told who went to search for it?”

“No, I found it in one of the tents the next morning.”

“So sh--” Blackwall stopped himself, looking away for a moment. Then his brow furrowed harshly, as if he caught himself before saying something sensitive. But while things seemed to be clicking for him, Olivia was only sinking deeper and deeper into confusion.

“Blackwall, do you know who found my knife?” she asked with suspicion, folding her arms across her chest.

“I, uh, realize now that my memory may be a bit clouded. I am not sure who it specifically was, but, I know for certain it was not me. Perhaps...you should ask others who were on the mission, see if they know who it could have been.”

Olivia eyed him, her chin lifting slowly as she thought back to who was there. It was her, Blackwall, Sera, and Cassandra. No one name stuck out to her especially considering the way the dynamics were between them all. Perhaps a Scout had found it and was too shy to own up to it.

“I...suppose that’ll have to be an investigation for another time,” she sighed, shrugging as she let her hands fall to her sides. “I am going to look back over reports over the Ocularum locations. I’ll be in the war table tent if you need me.”

“Yes...my Lady,” Blackwall replied, nodding once.

She glanced at him one last time before withdrawing from the Battlements. Walking to the tents, she couldn’t help but chide herself for being distracted by something so inconsequential. Yet, for one reason or another, the image of the knife stuck on the table would not leave her mind for the rest of the afternoon. Even as she filed reports, discussed various problems or logistics with troops, or surveyed the courtyard, in her mind’s eye there was that silver, clean knife, shining in the morning brightness.

But, at the end of the line, she concluded such fixations were a matter of dehydration.

\--

The following morning, there were confirmed sightings of the caravan only about several miles from the Keep. Olivia was excited -- well, as excited as someone who had stayed over a month in the Approach could be by such developments. As Griffon Wing prepared for the incoming group, she was holed up in the war table tent, once again busy with stacks of letters and reports to be sifted through. By all accounts, Olivia had proven her worth as a tactician even in the most remote and hostile of environments. Not even an Inquisition contingent with allies she had not seen in weeks could stop her. However, this did not stop one of them from meeting her on her own turf.

“Your mind spins like a coin tossed on a table. It goes, going nowhere, and everywhere at the same time. Shining, catching light, but never letting it linger. Too much brightness leaves nothing for me to have to myself.”

Olivia’s eyes widened as she looked up from the desk she was hunched over, quill in hand and paper edge in the other. A smile appeared on her face immediately, and she sprung up and around to see him. Sweet Cole, sitting cross-legged on the nearby long table filled with scrolls and maps. His infamous hat concealing the majority of his face.

“Cole!” she said, tossing the quill aside and walking over to him. “I have missed you so! May I hug you?”

“Somewhat,” he replied, uncrossing his legs to let them hang over the edge.

Olivia smirked, nodding once in obedience. She reached and took hold of his hands, piling them together between hers. “How are you, my friend? Did traveling wear on you?”

“This is a scar, all of this land. There was much loss here, as vast as the sands cracking and aching under footfalls. There is nothing worth grieving here, and yet, there’s singing. Hymnals under hills.”

“Yes, it is a bit of a pit, I’ll say. Come, come, you must see the rest of the Keep! Unless…”

“I have seen it. It’s here, where else can it be?”

“....right. Well, you can come and have some water, or rest. Where is everyone else?”

Cole hopped off the table, one hand still between Olivia’s by virtue of his own permission. He lowered his head, as if listening to something rumbling under the ground, but there was nothing.

“They are coming. They sent me ahead, but I cannot fly like the Ravens.”

“Of course not, but that is fine. Do you want to come with me down to the gates?”

“She is hoping you’re safe. No one said otherwise. It makes sense for you to be safe. Safe, like you were, only she had to be told. There is care without words,” Cole said, walking closer to the strategy table, before turning around to face Olivia again. “She doesn’t go far enough to know why, but she goes. She’ll always go.”

Olivia froze with one eyebrow raised. Cole was never the direct and blunt communicator, but she had always tried her best to understand him and his ways of conveying what he was feeling or seeing. But this time, he had piqued her curiosity. It took everything in her not to break her own rule and utilize him as an oracle of some sort. She believed he deserved more than to be kept around for what he was able to see.

“Cole,” she grinned, coming closer and placing a hand on his shoulder, “come on, let us go. We can talk about your travels and what you saw on the way.”

“More or less, yes,” he said, taking his hand from her at last and vanishing in a cloud of dark smoke. No ceremony, no fuss. Olivia placed her hands on her hips, nodding to herself a silent concession. Then, a voice calling out from one of the battlement watchtowers: arrivals at the gates, Inquisition troops, supply wagons, and all. Quickly, she came around the table and grabbed a cloth handkerchief resting beside some books. As she raced down the second floor stairwell she rubbed her face, hoping any dirt, dust, or stains would be taken care off in a last ditch effort of cleanliness.

As soldiers and Scouts hurried past her to come see for themselves just who had arrived, Olivia found herself doing more than just dusting off her face. Cole’s words weren’t exactly specific. There was no clue of accent, slang, or mannerisms that she could figure out. Just thoughts, just internal musings. Yet, there she was, walking to the opening gates and combing her fingers through her knotted, untied hair. She pulled a ribbon from her pocket, shoving her blonde waves up and out of her face and into a rough bun.

Then, the gates opened fully, and as people looked on a wagon was pulled by two bulky, brown horses. It was full of crates and boxes of food, and likely other supplies like medicines. People smiled and clapped with happiness, as they always did when supplies reached camps. The uptick in morale made her grin as they all crowded around, saying their hello’s and already hopping aboard the wagon to start unloading.

With people coming up behind her on either side to see what had been brought, Olivia felt a bit caught in the inertia. This was not all they were expecting, after all: a second ally remained to be seen. 

“Inquisitor!” the Scout atop the wagon called, hopping down the wheel and holding two scrolls in her hands. Handing them off, the woman rubbed her glistening forehead with her forearm. “We’re here with no casualties or injuries. These are inventory measures of all the supplies, and a message from Sister Leliana.”

Olivia tucked one under her arm, the one with numbers, whilst she went about opening the one from the Spymaster. Written in her own hand, it looked to be too important to read on the fly straight after their arrival. Biting her dry lip, she nodded and folded it closed again.

“Thank you, Maeve. It is good to have you hear safely. Go find some water upstairs, we can handle the unloading,” she grinned, patting her on the shoulder. 

“Yes, Ser,” the Scout bowed with a smile, looking relieved at the promise of sustenance. She left quickly for the stairs, leaving Olivia to return her attention to the fray of people and horses.

Through the crowd and the shadowy archway of the gates, she saw a black horse approach as the last arrival. A horse with a thick forelock of hair, flowing all the way down to its noseband. She remembered braiding it once or twice when she had a minute to kill, and how much it annoyed his rider at first when she would insist on putting flowers in it. That rider, sitting atop that beautiful horse as she had been before, rode in wearing her armor and a shield at her back, face looking tired but vigilant as if she were still searching for something. Once her hazel eyes found their match across the small crowd, then, she found it. Or, rather, her.

Olivia tucked the second scroll under her arm with the other, biting back a smile as she began making her way through the crowd. Her body was lighter, and the overbearing heat of the sun grew distant. Rapidly the faraway image of Cassandra became an assemblage of details more and more visible to her tired eyes: the dark metal of her armor, the dark green underlayer collar on her shoulders. Her face, with all its angular features and intimidating scars. Olivia took it all in as she simultaneously bobbed and weaved through a few more people, before stopping a couple yards away.

“Seeker,” she greeted, holding a flat palm at her brow to shield her vision from the sun. “You just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

Patting her horse on his shoulder, Cassandra nodded and dismounted, having little need to be in the saddle now. “Inquisitor,” she returned while she guided her horse’s reins over his head in order to hold them under his nose. “It is good to see you safe.”

“And you as well,” Olivia said as she came closer, hands falling on the horse’s head and cheek as she rubbed his smooth, sweaty coat. “Hello, Raven.”

Cassandra smirked, sliding her arm through the loop in the reins, freeing up her hands to slip off her gloves, stretching the first freed bare hand. “Have you given pet names to all of the horses in Master Dennett's stables?”

The horse bobbed its head, invigorated by Olivia’s generous scratching up behind his ears. She giggled, perhaps for the first time in weeks. “Oh, no, just my favorites,” she replied, before planning a kiss on his snout. “You’re lucky I am loyal to my mare, or else I’d snatch him out from under you.”

“It is a good thing he is not mine, then,” Cassandra remarked, noticing a soldier approach to take her horse from her. When Olivia noticed too, both women stepped back, and the reins were transferred from the Seeker to the young man. Olivia couldn’t help but sneak in one more pat on the horse’s shoulder as he was lead away, cutting between her and Cassandra on their way to the small stable pens. Without an animal between them, Olivia sighed lightly and turned her attention fully onto her ally, taking a couple steps closer to face her head on.

“I trust the voyage was not entirely fraught?”

“It was long, and arduous at points. However, we managed well enough. Did you receive Leliana’s dispatch from the Scout?”

“Yes, I am saving it for later. Is it something serious?”

“Not necessarily,” Cassandra tilted her head coupling her gloves together and holding them with her hands behind her back. “She said they are details she thought you would wish to know.”

Olivia narrowed her gaze, a humoring smile framing her face. “Oh, I see. Nothing too ominous, then. Come, I want to show you the Keep, we have just settled in about three weeks ago, but the troops have been hard at work, and we have been settling outposts and camps…”

Beckoning her to follow with an outstretched hand and bright eyes, Olivia lead Cassandra towards the first covered set of stairs. Cassandra, meanwhile, was quietly hiding words behind a grin. She was a bit too easygoing for her usual standards, but maybe that was just the fatigue from traveling. Nevertheless, Olivia had a new, if not slightly fragile flame lit under her belly to show off the Inquisition’s progress.

“Wasn’t this Keep occupied by Venatori?” Cassandra asked as they climbed the stairs side-by-side.

“Yes, unfortunately. It took a lot to take them down; Vivienne and I had to drink healer's tonics like water afterwards. But, we prevailed, and now we have a vantage point from which to push on.”

When they came to the top of the stairway, Cassandra got a look at the series of tents and tables, and the furnishings already installed for the smith’s and the soldiers. They halted so that everything could be appreciated, and for a moment Olivia forgot just how used to it all she had become. Seeing the exuberant bodies and faces of people at work made the heat of the day and the barren landscape all the more bearable. But, of course, part of her joy rested on Cassandra’s approval, for better or worse.

“This is good progress,” the Seeker said finally.

Olivia’s smile broadened. “Yes, that it is.”

Cassandra then glanced at her, a brow raised slightly. “Inquisitor, may I ask something?”

“Yes, of course. What is it?”

“...What is all over your face?”

Feeling an instant touch of warm blushing in her cheeks, Olivia’s lips parted. “Oh, nothing, just…” she scrambled, grabbing her cloth from her pocket and turning away to rub more of whatever it was that had stuck to her complexion off once and for all. “Just, dirt and grime...from the wind…and…” her voice muffled by her hands and the fabric. “I am...I’m just fine…”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra interrupted, placing a hand on her shoulder.

The feeling of touch stopped Olivia in her tracks, compelling her to turn to the side and look back at her, her nose, cheeks, and mouth covered with her cloth. The Seeker blinked, withdrawing her hand.

“Are you alright?”

Olivia paused and stared back, eyes widened a bit. They were bright, vivid with nervous energy. Though, to a stranger, it was simply the vibrant irises of a Mage, and not a bashful woman. _Why does she do that? Touch my shoulder when I'm making an arse of myself. It's like she knows it makes it worse. Ugh, great,_ Olivia thought as she tried her best to compose herself. 

“I, uh,” Olivia said at last, removing the handkerchief and playing with it in her hands. “I’m just excited, is all. It is good...it’s good to see you, and Cole, of course. I know how you feel....nervous, about him still. But he has always been kind to me.”

Cassandra looked upon her with undaunted focus, hearing her explanation but somehow feeling that wasn’t all there was to the story. “Cole is...eager, I will admit. But he has proven cooperative when needed, even if his methods are most unorthodox.”

“Hm, yes,” Olivia smiled as she continued walking towards the second row of stairs. “I can scarcely think of an ally we have that is not unorthodox, though. Can you?”

Cassandra grinned, following after her. “If there are, their names escape me.”

“Very well, you may answer when your mind is working again.”

“...Inquisitor?”

Olivia had only a few steps left in front of her, but she stopped in her tracks to look back at Cassandra a few feet below. The tone she had was...different. Not as congenial and standoffish. Looking back at her, she saw the look on her face, as if she wanted to get something off her chest: her lips parted, brow softened. She had no idea what caused this abrupt shift in attitude: the heat? Having her feet on the ground, maybe?

“Yes, Seeker?” she replied, brow furrowing as she grinned.

“I…” Cassandra began, but cut off. A pause, as if suddenly this was anything but the right time. Her eyes flickered to the ground when faced with Olivia’s direct gaze.

 _Ugh, he said this would be easy to simply say it,_ Cassandra thought to herself, _It would not be bizarre, she would appreciate it. She likes kindness. She would not think it strange or...is it strange? Maker..._

“My thoughts escape my mind. Forgive me,” she admitted, shaking her head. “Let us finish what we have started.”

Olivia smirked, placing hands on her hips. “First Blackwall, then you. Perhaps my sunburnt face is so ugly now that it is causing people to lose their minds when they look upon it.” She then twisted back around, continuing on.

Cassandra chuckled a bit uneasily, a touch of shyness as she lagged behind a few steps. If it was anything causing her thoughts to scatter, it was anything but Olivia’s ‘ugliness.’ But, whatever it was, the middle of the desert on the day of arrival was perhaps not the most ideal place or the time.


	38. Looking for Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The private letter from Leliana proves more upsetting that Olivia originally predicted, and she is reminded of the delicate balance between her past and who she must be. Luckily for her, both Cole and Cassandra provide solace in their own ways.

_5 Matrinalis, 9:41 Dragon_

_Inquisitor,_

_I wished to write you personally regarding a unexpected matter. A mysterious woman came to Skyhold last week. She would not give her name or her origins. She simply asked for you by first name, not by your Heraldry or title. When Josephine said you were abroad, she did not elect to stay and wait, deciding to leave abruptly with no further word._

_She had dark, long hair and wore hunting gear. She had blades and a bow on her back, but they looked clean and underused for a huntress or a tracker. Her accent struck me as being Fereldan, but, she would not specify or answer questions about herself. Does this have something to do with your friend in the mountains?_

_I have Scouts patrolling the surrounding territory in case the woman is lurking nearby. Rest assured, I have commanded that should she be found, no unprovoked harm will come to her, until we have confirmation from you as to her possible identity. I trust you will be returning to Skyhold soon so that we may continue our efforts that are needed elsewhere._

_Maker be with you, Inquisitor._

\--

Olivia had tucked herself away in a corner of the battlements after the first read-through of Leliana’s letter. Just as she had come to believe she could not be vexed or surprised by anything while her spirit was perpetually jaded by the Approach, one more thing had to arise and upset her. It didn’t feel good, crying in the dry air of the desert. Even as the sun was setting, and the evening air began to cool, it felt like she was turning to dust and stone with her face soaked. She had become such a silent crier as the days and weeks passed.

It could have been the dark hair, or the hunting armor, that hinted enough to who she was. The combination was almost iconic after all that time spent, just as Olivia wearing her corset underneath her own clothes was. But no, it was the bow: the bow said to be on her back, paired with blades. She wondered where Theia had gotten the one she wore up in the Frostbacks, until she saw it up close. It was not her bow, but it was someone’s. It belonged to the woman who used it to keep them all alive. It was the one she had taught Theia to use so she could be her backup if needed. She was always thorough and practical like that: thinking about the what-ifs, how to be capable in a pinch.

_Maker, what was she doing there?_

At first, Olivia had paced and paced and paced, sequestering herself to a battlement walkway corner with the view of the unconquerable canyon below the ridge they were perched on. Now on the floor with her back against the stone, and her knees hugged against her, she held the scroll messily-rolled between her thighs and her chest.

Why would she come? Where are the rest? Could they have been in hiding or did she truly come alone? Where is Theia? Where is Theia, where is Theia, where is Theia. It felt like she had been asking that question more often she breathed. It was that question that crowned the twisted fate she had endured the last almost two years. Where she was, she would follow. She would always follow, until she didn’t.

There were only so many facts and pieces she could gather from Leliana’s letter. She was there, meaning she knew how to get there. She had her weapons. The bow, that damn bow. If Theia had reconnected with her, if she found her, that would mean...but then, why wouldn’t she follow Veronica? Why would Veronica of all people be the one to go after her? No writing, no word, no warning? What if something, what if anything happened…

Olivia’s throat hardened, another merciless pang of tears brewed behind her eyes. She closed her eyes and bit her lip as tears broke free, streaming down her face quickly and recklessly, cleansing streaks of skin of the collected dirt and dust. Months of this, months of hiding her dread and her painstaking worry only to have nothing given back. The more this life had held onto her, pulling her into an abyss where she needed to learn how to breath, see, and hear differently -- the less she could grasp on the string of her life before for a sense of gravity.

Inhaling sharply, the sound of soft hissing on her tongue as her chest refilled with hot air, she took the letter into her hands again. Flattening it with her thumbs and index fingers, she took one more look at the careful writing. Each line, up front with its secrets, nothing left to uncover or decipher. She could picture Leliana writing it, her face when she decided the best course of action was to inquire kindly, and not to assume anything. Even when a straightforward Ferelden Mage stomps into a Great Hall looking for her former comrade and friend, only to leave as anomalously as she appeared.

 _This is all so foolish. I can’t make words appear with invisible ink,_ she thought, shaking her head and folding the paper in half. With one hand she wiped her face coarsely to retain some semblance of sanity in her appearance. Though, with a glowing green hand and eyes that turned orange and gold when she felt fluxes in emotion hardly brought “sane” to mind.

“Cole,” she sighed through her congested nose, “I know you’re there. No need to stalk.”

“I’m not stalking. I was here first,” the half-spirit replied, appearing once again in a cloud of dark smoke sitting against the wall opposite her. “You never got to be first.”

She smirked dryly, pressing the parchment between her fingers, feeling the brittleness of it as she stared off into space. Cole was never one to hog the spotlight, much as his actions and abilities attracted it.

“How did you see me?” he asked, tilting his chin upwards a bit to expose more of his face.

“You made me smell poppies.”

“But you like them.”

“Yes, and I like you, too. That is how I knew.”

“So all likable things smell like poppies.” Cole’s conclusion was solemn, but sweet. She hoped he could feel the compliment for what it was: honest and well-intentioned, even through her sadness that he was probably preoccupied with. So far, getting to know him yielded two truths: where there was struggle, he was almost certainly not to far away. Second, he did not care much for whether you emphatically liked or disliked him. It was not his nature, not his purpose. But, making the air smell of poppies was a good way to ensure likability, at least in the Inquisitor’s book.

“Cole, if you have come to comfort me, it is not necessary. I am simply venting alone to myself.”

“You aren’t listening, though. You just keep thinking, and spinning. Your mind goes in circles, like a dancer, only you don’t look for anything still to focus on. You just turn, turn around hoping everything is different. That it turns with you. No one dances with you, they watch. Watch the pretty girl who sees the world as a blur.”

“Yes, like a dancer. A very….very long time ago,” she exhaled, letting her legs straighten out on the ground. “Do you remember much about your life, long ago?”

“I...I do.”

“Yes? Do you have happy memories?”

“Not without promises. I...I keep them away for now. They need protection.”

Olivia tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “You don’t let yourself remember?”

Cole did not reply. Instead, he began to subtly rock back and forth, as if in a rocking chair. Whether that was a good or bad sign, Olivia did not exactly know. Perhaps she had been too forceful or deflective for his boundaries.

“Forgive me, Cole. I was...simply interested. We do not have to talk about it,” she conceded, holding the letter in her lap.

“I will say, when we are not here. Here it is crowded, full and overflowed onto the table. You want to go home.”

“I do, but I am afraid to call it that, is all.”

“It is not afraid to call you.”

Olivia huffed. “No, that is for certain.”

She leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes and exhaling deep and slow. The sun had set, and now the light dusted blue of the sky was ushering in another night. Stars had begun to peak from the heavens, scattered but unstoppable in their shine. When she opened her eyes she was greeted with them dotting the horizon, some flickering and others steady. Some waiting for the slightest shade of night to resist with their own brightness, others waiting for their exposure to be inescapable.

Veronica’s existence was but one more thorn in her side that she would have to carry, waiting for that threshold to be crossed. For the sake of her steadiness, she would have to trust that if she did not falter in her course, the truth would become illuminated eventually. Even if Theia did not keep her word to write, Olivia could keep her word to be easy to find. Once, it would have been easy for her to drop everything and become consumed by thoughts of her friends. Now, with all she had seen and been expected to do, the most she could offer was to continue honoring her promise to Theia and be easy to find -- even if Theia did not end up keeping her word.

Closing her eyes for a moment to collect her thoughts, she turned her attention toward her unpredictable comrade in front of her.

“Have you had supper, yet, Cole?”

“No,” he replied simply.

“Do you want some?”

“No. They put apples in the soup. The cook ran out of vegetables; he hopes no one will notice.”

Olivia giggled softly, her cheeks stinging with the feel of a dried layer of tears on her cracking skin. “You don’t like apples?”

“Sometimes. I find my food elsewhere, not in pots or over fires.”

“Alright,” Olivia shrugged, “more for me then.” Pushing off of one hand Olivia rose to her feet, the aches and strains of a body that had weathered weeks of violence making the effort a little more to work for. Wincing a little as she finally became eye-level with the horizon, she took a breath and looked back down at Cole, who remained on the ground. She held the letter tightly in one hand, clenched like a fist.

“Inquisitor,” he said, placing his hands in the middle of his lap. “You should sleep tonight.”

“Oh?” Olivia replied, dusting off her breeches. “And what makes you say that?”

“I am not saying that. She will.”

“She…?”

As if on cue, Olivia noticed a figure coming toward her from down the walkway. It was then she noticed the torches starting to be lit on the grounds below by the guards. Olivia grinned, turning to face the oncoming person head on and raising her hands to chest-level. With one swift rotation of her palms, the torches around her caught fire in unison, illuminating the space between them. If she had improved on any skills during her post there, it was to work smarter, not harder, and her magic had benefited from that philosophy.

Cassandra, still wearing her armor and sword at her side, did not flinch or look surprised at the reflex of magic. Instead, she simply grinned, her face illuminated by the soft bronze and orange firelight. Olivia felt the weight on her chest lessen, but her stomach filled with little hummings of butterflies that replaced it as a distraction.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra said once she was a few yards away, “is this where you have been all evening?”

Olivia nodded. “I was here with C--oh,” she stopped, looking down to see no one where Cole once was sitting. Once again, he had took his own leave.

“Let me guess, you were with Cole?” Cassandra asked in a skeptical tone, arriving at her side.

“Yes, in fact,” she replied as she folded the letter again and again for good measure, reducing it to a size she could fit in her pocket. “Is something the matter?”

Cassandra paused, taking a breath before speaking. “Not at all. People were wondering if something had happened.”

“So they sent you, huh?”

“...No. They did not ‘send’ anyone. It was merely curiosity that brought me here. That, and to let you know supper is being served down below.”

Olivia smirked, walking forward and tucking the paper away in her vest. “Then we should head down. Cole told me they put apples in the soup, I’m intrigued.”

“Apples? In soup? That is a combination I have not had in quite some time.” Cassandra’s brow furrowed as she turned around, walking alongside her with her hands tucked behind her. Shoulder-to-shoulder, the women looked like they had always seemed to be since the Inquisition began. It wasn’t lost on Olivia, the feeling of it, even if she couldn’t adequately describe just what it was or where it came from.

“So, what do you think of the Approach thus far? You rode to the east camp earlier, did you not?” Olivia asked, slowing the pace of their walk a bit.

“I did, to evaluate supplies and see the Darkspawn for myself. This place is most...unnerving. It troubles me to think of what the Venatori have been conspiring to accomplish here.”

“I suspect we haven’t even seen the half of it.”

The two them came to a stop, mutually initiated as they came around to face the view of the land and the sky in front of them. The night was now fully upon them as the moon had taken its place up above. Olivia usually liked all things dark and mysterious, but this was different. To her, darkness meant depth, possibility for new things. Here it was dismal, the product of calamity and empty suffering. The quiet was not hopeful. The stillness was not trustworthy.

“It is beautiful at night, in its own way,” she remarked, placing her hands on the stone pillar rail.

“It almost reminds me of Nevarra, as much as it fatigues me to admit it.”

Olivia gazed back at her, a playful grin on her lips. “How so? It was my understanding that Nevarra had forests and mountains.”

Cassandra took a breath, stepping a couple feet closer to the wall. “The Silent Plains are a borderland between Nevarra and the Imperium. If you travel north, you can see it on the horizon. It is vast, and traveling through its wilderness is discouraged. But, the rural nature of the land makes the sky seem...brighter.”  
Leaning forward onto her elbows resting on the rail, Olivia was unable to take her eyes off of her while she talked. Hearing trace details about these places she had never seen -- places significant to her, and getting to imagine them through her eyes.

“Do you miss Nevarra? Even if you do not miss the culture?” she asked, chin resting on her own shoulder.

Cassandra glanced at her, her discerning look softening a bit. The last time they had discussed this it was little more than congenial formality. She would never have admitted anything resembling her true emotions back then. But, as the Inquisitor looked upon her with those shining eyes and pleasant disposition that came with them, after a month and a half of them being so far apart, she found things had changed more than she originally felt.

“I...suppose one cannot help it,” she admitted at last, returning her eyes to the view before them. “There are parts of most every place I have been that I found solace in. That does not mean that I wish to return, or that I feel that I belong there. I belong where I am needed, where I can best serve the Maker’s purpose for me. There is nothing for me in Nevarra now.”

Olivia huffed a bit of air through her nose, hanging her head low for a moment as she followed the Seeker’s gaze outward. Leaning onto one hip and tucking one leg around the other, there was little comfort in Cassandra’s words despite how much she had in common with them. Perhaps one could never truly go home again, if your fate was so heavily bound in powers beyond what you could comprehend.

“And you, Inquisitor? Do you long for Orlais despite all you know now of the world?” Cassandra retorted.

Olivia laughed under her breath, smiling as she lifted her chin up to eye the moon. “Orlais was like being born and taught to walk in quicksand. If it were not for the fates making me a Mage, I never would have known anything else besides the dissonance of being an Orlesian noble. Even as I wanted for nothing...a golden cage is still just that: a cage. There is nothing to miss about a place and a life that conforms you to indistinction passed off as excellence.”

Cassandra’s head tilted, and she let her hands fall and come around to her abdomen, one hand massaging the other on the palm. “I never truly contemplated the consequences of of Orlesian culture on children. Its people are so engrossed in their own masquerading of self-importance and gross opulence, it is easy to dismiss the existence of dissent.”

Olivia sighed lightly, leaning up and away from the stone. “Nothing drinks so ravenously as the Great Game does from the chalice of people’s imperfect hopes. If I am to miss anything of my homeland, it is my Father and the sea in the autumn. Nothing else.”

The Inquisitor stepped back after she finished her response, looking once again at Cassandra, who’s sympathetic expression eased her melancholy.

“At least we have one thing in common, then, to ensure we do not always argue like cats and dogs,” Cassandra concluded with a slight grin on her lips.

Olivia snorted and shook her head, busily adjusting one of her coat sleeves at the elbow.

“Cassandra...I…”

“Yes, Inquisitor?”

Olivia’s vision blurred a bit as she blinked quickly, looking directly into Cassandra’s eyes. Something unexpected and concerning demanded to be expressed, waiting on her throat and tongue like an oncoming tide reaching for the shore. It filled her with fretfulness, and she closed her mouth as if to physically prevent it from overflowing onto her lips. So much had gone beyond the boundaries she had set in the beginning. So many of her rules, repealed and burned to ash, and they all seemed to start and end with the way Cassandra looked at her. But, not all fruit you could find in the wild is meant to have teeth sunken into; some of it concealed sickness within nature’s providence. Olivia learned this long ago when it came to enticements of the heart, and had sworn off the promise of finding sweetness. Stopping herself just in time to keep from embarrassing herself, she grinned and took a couple steps backwards towards the stairs behind them.

“I hate to halt the conversation, but I really am hungry. We should get supper before it runs out.”

Cassandra eyed her, noticing the way her eyes shifted in hue, how her face dimmed even with the casted light of torch fire around them. It made her curious, but for once, she did not pursue the true source of the Inquisitor’s carefulness.

“Certainly,” she replied, following after her, “but I refuse here and now to take on your leftovers if you complain about the apples.”

“That will not be an issue,” Olivia chuckled, “but I do call dibs on your bread if you find it too stale for your liking.”

“Ugh, alright, you have a deal.”


	39. A Diversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way back to Skyhold from the Approach, Olivia and the Inquisition caravan stop at a lake to refresh and rest. Cassandra and Blackwall discuss her finding the harvesting knife without telling Olivia, and for some reason being honest proves more difficult than predicted. The Seeker grapples with sensitivities she cannot yet explain.

_30 Matrinalis, 9:41 Dragon_

_Leliana,_

_We are leaving in two day’s time for Skyhold. It should take us another fortnight at least to reach the mountains. All outposts and camps are secure despite the wilderness and surrounding threats. All deaths and injuries have been accounted for. We will have two critically injured return with us, men from your team. They are stable._

_The Inquisitor is looking forward to leaving the Approach. All things considered, she is in good condition. I talked to Sera before leaving Skyhold, and Blackwall the other night about her status. They both on their own stated that the desert has worn on her. They are both concerned about her patience level, and have cited circumstances in the field where the Inquisitor displayed excessive frustration, even by her standards. Even I have to admit she is acting different. I do not blame her._

_She has been dedicated to little else besides work. There have been days when I leave for midday duties and see her under the war table tent, and when I return several hours later she is still there, performing her responsibilities or talking to personnel. She forgets to eat, and she seldom sleeps except for when she cannot resist it any longer. In which case she asks me to wake her if she becomes to distressed by dreams. She takes almost every overnight watch shift, and she is often up with the recruits at dawn to train._

_I am unsure whether she will carry this disposition, but for now I hope this answers your questions._

_Maker keep you._

_C._

\--

Nothing seemed more heaven sent to the Inquisition caravan than the first green forest they came across on their journey back to Skyhold -- well, except maybe the lake that they found later, glowing and shining blue under the abundant and temperate sunlight. No one was willing to break rank and run for it until the Inquisitor herself rode down the hillside and into the water, her horse’s hooves creating a wide splash. Then, everyone who had been deployed with her for all those weeks came running behind her, laughing and smiling. It was quite the sight, the dozen or so in uniforms, trained hard for any and all perils they may face, frolicking as if they were children coming outside for the first decent day of spring.

Olivia pulled her horse around to watch them all, some even falling to the grass and tumbling in summersaults that made her toss her head back and laugh. At the top of the slope the rest of the group came to a halt, Cassandra’s horse coming up to the front of the line to see what had happened. But this was not enough to stop her fun: the blasted desert was nowhere to be seen, and the countryside was once more a welcoming refuge. The worst was behind them, at least in this moment. Feeling a reckless sort of whirlwind consume her spirit, she ripped off her riding cowl and jumped down from her saddle, falling into the water and submerging herself completely.

“Inquisitor!” a nearby soldier gasped as heads turned to see what had happened to her, her horse spooking and trotting back onto shore. After a moment Olivia finally emerged, a bright and gaping smile on her lips as she rose out from the water, a mixture of both coughing and laughing on her throat.

“I’m fine, I’m fine! I promise!” she said as she pushed stray strands of hair out of her face.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” the soldier said, “are we allowed to swim and rest after all, then?”

“Yes, of course. Be hasty, we do not want to lose too much daylight!”

The surrounding soldiers erupted happy sounds and some clapped even, joyous in their ability to have a break somewhere pleasant for once. The majority of them took off their armor off, stripping down to their underlayers and smallclothes to go swimming. Olivia swam to shore to follow suit, hands going for the buckles on her shoulder metal and breastplate, standing in water up to her ankles on the pebbled shore.

As she unbound herself from her armor, both Blackwall and Cassandra came riding down to her, stopping on the grass several yards from the shore.

“Inquisitor, are you sure this is wise?” Cassandra asked, watching as all the soldiers jumped and hopped through the water.

Blackwall smirked. “Seeker, come on, what’s the harm? Let them have a break.”

“Yes, Seeker,” Olivia said in a more teasing tone, “If you can’t beat them, join them, right?” Tossing her armor to dry land, she went to work on the ties and buttons of her underlayer.

“That is not exactly a sound philosophy,” Cassandra replied, resting her hands on her saddle pommel. “If you insist, then fi--”

Olivia had been listening as she slid her top off her body, revealing only her chest bound in a linen smallclothes band almost like a compression bandage. It had been a while since she felt safe enough to expose that much skin in the open daylight without risking an agonizing sunburn. Realizing that Cassandra had stopped mid-sentence she looked up at her, throwing her shirt on the pile she had created. The Seeker was gazing down at her saddle, now, looking almost like she was inspecting her gloves or something.

“...You were saying, Cassandra?”

“I...I meant fine, we can stop.” Cassandra looked back down at her, only in her eyes and nowhere else, as if to look anywhere else would be compromising of some sort of unideal inclination.

“Oh...okay…” Olivia replied with short-lived suspicion, wiping her arms down as she turned to glance at Blackwall. “Better get in then!”

Blackwall chuckled a bit as Olivia jogged off into the water. Something about seeing her filled with exuberance again after so long was a relief. Perhaps the energy and joy she had seemed to contain in spades was not used up after all. His leader, his friend, deserved this. Turning his attention to the person beside him, though, he was less comforted.

“Seeker, are you alright?” he asked, seeing the way she was fiddling with her glove straps. “You look like you just ate a sour apple and got sand tossed in your eyes, and we’re at least a morning’s ride away from either.”

“I am fine, Warden,” she said sternly, shaking her head a bit as she refocused on the lake before them.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I am sure. What of it?”

Blackwall grinned, feeling his horse shift its weight from side to side as he loosened his reins for good. “I was only asking for posterity’s sake.”

Cassandra eyed him and the humor on his face. Oh, wonderful, now even the Warden was getting good fun from her social fumblings. The last thing she needed was for it to follow her for the weeks it would take to get back to Skyhold.

“You know, she knows about the knife.”

The Seeker’s stomach dropped. “What? I thought you--”

Blackwall laughed softly, puffing his chest out. “Easy, Seeker. She doesn’t know that part.”

“Ugh, Maker,” she sighed, rolling her eyes closed. “Blackwall, I would appreciate it if you did not disclose what happened. It is not important to things now, and would only…”

“Only what?” Blackwall interjected, tilting his head. “Let her know you cared about her, even when you didn’t like her?”

She paused and looked away from him, evading the bizarre feeling of the situation. Instead, though, her eyes locked on Olivia, who was running through the thigh-level water as fast as she could drag her legs while two people went after her, splashing and dishing out water at her. It looked like a well-provoked chase. With her so far away she could look upon the parts of her she had been too timid to before: how bronze her skin had become from the desert sun, both concealing and revealing her accrued battle scars along her sides, on her back, and her arms. Her muscles and tone she had built intensely over time. How they looked doused in water.

“More silent treatment then, I take it,” Blackwall added, his voice bringing her back down to earth.

“I am not treating with anything,” she corrected a bit harshly, her horse rearing his head upwards in reaction to her uptick in tone. “Why are you of all people so curious? Do you not have other concerns as of late?”

Blackwall’s cheerful grin waned. “There’s no need to sneer, Cassandra.”

“That is not an answer to my question.”

“If you must know, Seeker, I am just as confused as you are. If it is no concern of yours, then why hide it? Why not take the chance to be up front with yourself, if it costs you nothing?”

Cassandra couldn’t help but scowl a bit at him. “Honest with what, exactly? That I found her knife in the sea? What is the point of saying it now after all this time but to bring unnecessary attention towards it?”  


Blackwall huffed, taking his reins back into his hand and tightening them a bit. “I have been with the Inquisitor since the first day of this expedition, and this is only the third time I’ve seen her look like the woman she was before. I know she’s fond of you. Why not be honest when you have nothing to lose?”

Cassandra’s face softened to a degree, and she followed his direction and looked back out at where the Inquisitor was, standing still instead of running this time and surrounded by nearly half a dozen troops. She was...just talking, as if she had run into friends on a walk. A bright smile was on her face as she waded her hands across the water surface, her smallclothes top stuck to her skin inch-for-inch and dripping. Someone must have told a joke, because out of the blue she laughed, scrunching her eyes closed as she hunched over a bit. The Seeker didn’t need to respond for her to show her agreement, as begrudgened as it was. She knew.

“Hmph. Pity,” the Warden commented at last, pulling his horse’s head up with his hold on the reins. “I know she’d get a good laugh out of it, too.”

The two warriors exchanged one last hardened look at one another, swords on their belts and shields at their backs. Only, one of them seemed to understand what it meant to be armored in body, and open in mind and heart. Kicking his horse to come around, circling back towards the direction of the caravan, he nodded once.

“I’ll be checking on the wagons, Seeker. Try not to search for things you’re not ready to find.”

As he rode away, the facade of Cassandra’s stoicism took one more hit in the wake of his parting words. _I know she’s fond of you._ What on Earth did he mean by that? Of course the Inquisitor was fond of her. They were allies, of course. They had shared enough pleasant interactions for Cassandra to believe she did not completely despise her as she may have before.

But, was that enough to assume fondness, of all things?

\--

After about a half hour of bathing, both in the water and under the sun, those who elected to spend time by the lake were redressing and preparing to get back on the road. Olivia was one of the last holdouts, aiming to get as much time soaking in the sunshine as possible, having laid herself out on the shore sprawled like a cat in a fissure of window light. Cassandra had watched all the mayhem and fun from the sidelines, halfway through deciding to dismount and allow her horse to graze while she checked on the caravan. When it was time to go, however, she approached the Inquisitor directly as she was sliding her armor back on her body.

_Ugh, why does she always scrunch her nose like that when she focuses? She looks so..., if she could choose a word it would probably be something ridiculous like ‘silly.’_

“Have you had your fun?” Cassandra asked, approaching her with her hand resting on the top of her sword grip. As she neared the lakewater, the treeline and border grass that stretched around became more visible. The midday heat and sunlight made everything more intensely colorful, and the bright greenery and growth seemed to be born an antithesis to the wasteland they had known for weeks. If even just to herself, Cassandra had to admit it was an inviting landscape.

Olivia was giggling a bit as she adjusted a shoulder guard strap. “Yes, I have. But the fates only know how long I will remain satiated. I could decide to do cartwheels for a mile down the way, or set my hair on fire. The day is still young, Seeker.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” Cassandra replied as she looked at her, finally removing her attention from the scene before them. “Everything is accounted for and ready to disembark. We are only waiting on your order.”

“What a lofty responsibility.”

“One I trust you are prepared for, Inquisitor.”

“And what if I am not, Seeker?”

“Then you must pretend to know the different between stopping and going. If you need re-education on their meanings, you need only ask.”

Olivia laughed softly as the playful tension in their back-and-forth came to a head, smiling as she grabbed her breastplate from the ground. Meanwhile, Cassandra bit back a smile of her own, reaching her hands behind her and encircling her grip around her wrist.

“You know, Cassandra, there was a time not too long ago that I swore off allowing you to make me laugh.”

There was a new warmth in the Seeker’s face, though its anomalous subtlety could have been hopped up to nothing more than the exposure to the sun. At least, that is the source that was hoped for, for the sake of self-preservation. “Oh? I am sure it was very difficult, considering my reputation for humor.”

“It was agonizing, to be sure. There were times I nearly caused my tongue to bleed from having to bit down on euphoric laughter from one of your jokes.”

Cassandra couldn’t help it, letting a laugh emanate warmly from her throat as she looked away. The reaction clearly surprised the Inquisitor, who parted her lips and raised a brow as she shimmeyed her breastplate into place, reaching for the buckle on the right side first.

“There was also a time when I believed I would never make you laugh, or feel any emotion synonymous with cheerfulness, or joy, or pleasure.”

“The verdict is still to be determined on that count,” Cassandra mused, folding her arms. “Do you...need assistance?”

Olivia, who had been struggling to connect one of the double buckles across her underarm, looked almost like a dog having its own tail to chase. She looked up then, eyes a bit wide, but not uninviting in their impatience.

“Oh...I...well, sure. My hands are a bit cold, I don’t have all the dexterity in them that I usually do…” she confessed, removing her hands from the straps and lifting her elbow towards the sky, exposing her side.

Cassandra huffed air through her nose, a soft grin on one corner of her mouth as she went to work, finding the disconnected buckle and leather straps. She made her adjustments quietly but precisely, yanking and tightening quickly, so much so Olivia let a little choke of air out of her mouth. It only made the Seeker smirk -- she had done this hundreds of times on both herself and others, too many times to care any longer for gentility over practicality.

“Pff! Gah, Are you trying to destroy my breasts?” Olivia gasped a bit as Cassandra yanked the second strap tight.

“Not at all, Inquisitor. That would be the spear, arrow, or blade that knocks through your loose-fitting armor and manages to impale you.”

“Okay, well, they cannot destroy anything that has been compressed into dust,” Olivia replied as she tried to regain air in her lungs.

Cassandra shook her head as she tapped on Olivia’s elbow, signaling the okay to let it rest at her side. As she came around in front of her to start on the other side, Olivia rolled her shoulder as she adjusted to the more stringent fit.

“You know Mages need to be able to stretch and extend their upper bodies, yes?” Olivia continued to debate, holding her left arm up in the air and preparing for another round of pushing and pulling.

“Makes do nothing that warriors do not do with their bodies, save enchanting. If you want to be durable in a fight, you need to carry yourself like it,” Cassandra replied, making the third unforgiving pull without so much as moving an inch of her body. The strength she carried in a simple arm movement took on a whole new meaning for the Inquisitor in this ritual.

“Is this why you are always so direct with your words? You cannot breathe enough to sustain a thorough conversation?”

“I am humoring you and your complaining, am I not?”

“Ah, touché. Then how do I know this is not some prank?”

Cassandra chuckled, pulling one last time on the last buckle. “Leliana would have my head for endangering you for the purpose of comedic relief. As would the Ambassador, Sera, Dorian…” Cassandra tapered off her listing once she realized she’d have to name perhaps the entire roster of allies in order to be accurate. Instead, she stepped back, and allowed the Inquisitor to let her arm go limp.

Flexing her shoulders and chest as much as she could afford -- which was not much -- Olivia managed to gain enough breath in her lungs to ease herself into the fit.

Cassandra took a breath. “You will just have to trust me.”

“Impossible.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Olivia smiled with a touch of mischief, “I cannot trust anyone who manages to still smell of sweet mint and spice after an hours-long excursion on horseback in the sun. I may know magic, Seeker, but that is just defiant of all good sense.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Olivia’s brightness softening Cassandra’s diligent shyness. That and the compliment was enough to put her off-kilter. As the Seeker managed the flurry of odd emotions in her mind all the while keeping a Wicked Grace face on for Olivia. But in a finger’s snap worth of time, impulsivity took hold of her.

“Inquisitor, I wish to tell you something. Something...insignificant, but nonetheless…”

Olivia tilted her head, her gaze narrowing a bit. “Did you kill someone on accident again, Seeker?”

“I...no! When have I ever done that?”

“It was a joke, Cassandra. I thought you would know, given our established belief in your prolific humor: phrase meant to inspire a giggle, smirk, perhaps even a guffaw?”

“That is...What on Earth is a ‘guffaw’?”

Olivia paused, pursing her lips onto one side of her mouth and looking off to the side for a moment, confusion adorning her face.

“...You know, I have no idea, but I read it in several plays growing up. It sounds rather annoying, now that I think of it. Nevermind, what is it you wish to tell me?”

Intuitively they began to walk together back towards the horses, heavy steps cutting through the tall grass. Cassandra looked pointedly towards the ground in front of her, knowing that to look the Inquisitor in the eyes while gearing up to say what she had to say would snap her focus clean in half. As they neared the horses grazing openly near the tree line, she stalled.

“Inquisitor, if you had done something you felt was out of line with the nature of the circumstances at the time, but enough time had passed to make what you had done irrelevant to most everything...yet, you still feel the influence of that choice, would you confess to it or move on?”

Olivia eyed her, hopping on and over a large rock embedded in her path. “It is a bit odd to hear you of all people be so vague and indirect, Cassandra. What kind of ‘choice’ are you referring to?”

“A...a simple choice, but one that you underestimate the implications of.”

“...like, ‘wearing a blue tunic instead of a red one even though you do not look good in red’ simple, or ‘deciding to kill a demon’ simple?”

“It is...well, unlike either of those matters. Somewhere in-between.”

“Choosing to wear a blue tunic before you fight a demon?”

“Inquisitor, please…”

Olivia stifled a chuckle as they arrived by their horses, turning a bit to face her from the side. “Cassandra, if you want my accurate opinion, you should give an accurate telling of the matter that troubles you. I may be capable with blades, but even I am not so talented as to stick an enemy in the dark on the first try.”

“I am well aware of that,” Cassandra responded curtly. Her temper was being stoked with the flux of her insecurity, and she looked out at the forest line while she composed her flurried thoughts. Why was this so difficult? She found a knife in the water and returned it. Well, she did, but didn’t confess to being the person that did it. Once more, she looked her in the face while she wondered aloud who it could have been and said nothing. That would be the behavior of someone with emotions or intentions to conceal, would it not? Certainly the Inquisitor would have questions as to why she neglected to tell her. But was that such a bad thing?

What in the Maker’s name was making it so difficult to be honest? They did not have all day, after all.

“I…” Cassandra said, taking a breath. “I am getting ahead of myself.”

The Inquisitor frowned. “You look pale, Cassandra. Have you been drinking water in this heat?”

“Yes, I have, I am certain I--ugh, Maker. I am not in the right mindset to be discussing rhetorical topics. Forgive me, I think it best if we mount our horses and continue our journey.”

Olivia’s eyes widened a bit. Her face seemed to say “oh, great, what have I done now?” but Cassandra was not calm enough to clarify without feeling insecure with having gotten them into this awkward mess. Shaking her head and reaching to the back of her belt to pull out her gloves, she walked past the Inquisitor and towards her horse several yards away.

Olivia pivoted around to follow her with her gaze, but stood still in the spot they had originally come to. Such self-conscious and overly-careful behavior was most bizarre. She continued to watch her, and Cassandra could feel worried eyes on the back of her head as she grabbed hold of her horse’s rein and pulled his head up, readying to get on. Pulling her stirrup down and sliding her gloves on quickly, the goal was to outrun this situation as much as possible. The sooner they got back on the road, the sooner they could be distracted by more pressing matters.

“Um, alright, then,” she heard Olivia sigh as she, too, went to her horse. Even though the Seeker was first to approach her horse, it was the Inquisitor who mounted first, electing to put on her gloves after she got herself on. Cassandra peered over her shoulder and watched as Olivia squeezed her horse’s sides with her heels, not bothering to take hold of the reins as she slipped her gloves on. The horse obediently strode around and started back to the main road, ears and body lazy after grazing. Olivia’s lack of further words or teasing was a relief, as Cassandra once again was alone to admonish herself in private.

Dusting off her saddle as a means of busying herself while her mind raced, she slid her foot into the stirrup and pulled herself up and on. Her horse jerked forward a bit feeling the the added weight on his back, but one hand on the side of his withers calmed him well enough. Gathering the reins and rocking side-to-side to adjust her weight distribution, she took one last moment to soak in the lake and the mountains. They had come far, but there was still so much road to endure before they would be back at Skyhold, and she would have to find some way not to break during that time.

 _Maker,_ she prayed to herself, _may the silence be long and the conversations short._


	40. All This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold celebrates the return of the Inquisitor after two months away. An unexpected presence shifts things out of balance for Olivia as her past and present collide in new ways. Old flames die hard for a fire-happy Mage.

_6.12 9.41_

_We need details. What is she like? Are the rumors true to form, or are they just gossip? Most everyone’s heads almost rolled off shoulders when it was confirmed she was the Dove. If we are to ensure she is protected and able to carry out any designs she has, we need to know logistics. Who is she befriending? Who is she making an enemy? Who does she spend her time with?_

_We heard she is planning to be on the move soon, so the sooner you are able to gather a report for us, the better. Be safe._

_F_

_-_

_6.20 9.41_

_I have the following details to confirm for you and the mistresses._

_The rumors of her personhood seem factual. Very beautiful, true to her heritage: fair, nimble, clever. But she is not as reliant on artifice. She comes across as generous and kind, and has a benevolent reputation in the fortress._

_She dedicates most of her free time to work with other Mages, save for sparring and military training under the Commander._

_She is most insular outside of these areas, keeping to herself in her private quarters. Hardly anyone outside of the high-ranking allies knows much about her._

_She argues with the Commander most often. The Enchanter, despite having her beliefs, seems to have become a trusted mentor. This does not bleed heavily into her policies._

_One note of possible concern is her growing friendliness to the Seeker, who by all accounts still exhibits prejudice and ambivalence to us. They argue, but it is not like when she argues with the Commander._

_She takes lovers, but never more than one or two nights at a time. Both men and women, though she favors the second. They are most often on her travels from what I hear from soldiers. She has taken one person at Skyhold to bed -- one of the kitchen servants, though the individual refuses to answer questions about her ‘friend’ and leader._

_That is all._

_B_

_-_

_7.02 9:41_

_Her alliances are cause for caution. We need to affirm that she has a strong network of her own kind to protect and preserve her motivations. A Mage in her position has too much power at her disposal to shape the world and be influenced by the Chantry “dissenters.”_

_Who controls her the most, by either friendship or romance, controls the Inquisition, and thus our future. She may be unique, but she is still Orlesian -- sensitive to words said by the right mouth on the right side of her neck._

_We need to inject company she will invite into the fold should they appear. We will examine connections to who and what remains of Ostwick. Be in toe._

_F_

_-_

_7:21 9:41_

_There are words spreading that she is returning from abroad soon. Whoever you are planning to send, or whatever, send them now._

_B_

_-_

_8:01 9:41_

_We have our person. She will be there very soon. Look alive, for she will connect with you once on the inside._

_F_

\--

The bathwater would stay hot as long as she damn well pleased.

Resting back on the rim of the tub, a rolled cloth towel propped behind her neck, Olivia let her mind wander as much as physically possible. Daydreaming of wild things, beautiful things. Being a mermaid in the bath, legs rising and falling with poise and creating small ripple waves. She wanted the oils and herbs to soak into her skin, through her muscles and into her bones. Through the murky translucency of the water, the full gauntlet of all the scars, bruises, and scrapes her body has accrued by surviving the jaws of the wild. Some long, stretching up the side of her thigh -- others short but concaving, missing bits of flesh that would never return to her. In another of her little mind escapes she imagined filling the holes of herself with the flowers and herbs that dressed her bath, until she became as much a part of nature as war. She would be a beautiful garden nymph, and never burden another soul with her existence again.

Josephine, as always, had proven a most gracious and keen welcoming committee. Having kindly organized the paperwork left on the Inquisitor’s desk in accordance to her developed system, she also let on that there was to be a simple, but celebratory theme to that night’s banquet in honor of their safe return. It would give Olivia a chance to wash up, wear a dress, and feel human again. Human again, she wondered, as if I take turns between soul and fable. Her appreciation for the Ambassador would compel her to entertain the festivities where her introversion would otherwise seclude herself.

A half hour later and dusk was upon the sky. Olivia managed to coax herself out of the water and into a fresh robe, creating a trail of water across the floor as she walked toward her dresser and armoire. Sifting through the gowns, coats, breeches, and vests, it was a wonder what would strike the right tone: what would say to everyone that she was intact, in decent spirits, and thank the Maker, still pretty? To be sure, this was not the pursuit of honesty. If it were, she would be searching for an outfit that said _I am tired, the world is too much, and no, I’m not sharing the roast chicken._

Eventually, she found one of the few articles of clothing that was not drenched in black or gold -- a long, deep burgundy tunic gown with long sleeves and hide forearm cuffs with laces. Something comfortable and presentable.

A few moments later, with gown tied on and face wiped clean, she combed through the last few pesky knots in her hair that had lingered from their traveling. She contemplated leaving it down after weeks of having it be tied up and tightly secured around her scalp in the midst of heat, wind, and sand. Looking in her dresser mirror at the way her flaxen blonde hair was several shades darker when soaked, its wildness making her look more like a normal woman than anything, there was an urge to be seen this way: tired and unpolished.

She flinched upwards as if to rise from the stool chair, stopping midway to take one last glance. Locking on her eyes, her heart fluttered. In front of her were several combs of various colors and metals, lined up like parts of armor on display for the taking. She bit the side of her lip softly, reaching for a pair of black tooth combs.

She then went to work, pulling, twisting, and tugging strands out of her face and towards the back of her head. Winding herself up like a doll to be presented.

If there would be nights to risk an organic existence, it would not be this one.

\--

Everyone clapped when the Inquisitor snuck in through the door to her quarters, as if they had been waiting for such an understated ceremonial with bated breath. Torches and candelabras were lit and sprawled across the Hall on banquet tables and walls, and somehow, a chandelier had been hoisted and lit high above. The Ambassador and her staff had been hard at work repairing and placing finishing touches on the fortress in the Inquisitor’s absence, and for as much as it made Olivia a bit aggravated, she tried her best to re-frame it as a celebration of Josephine’s hard work rather than an imposition on her time.

A crowd of anywhere between 60-80 persons had gathered, most being fortress personnel and servants. Some visiting nobles and dignitaries were mixed into the fold, presenting an intriguing assemblage of mingling.

The first person to greet the Lady Inquisitor though was, of course, her most steadfast Chief Diplomat.

“Inquisitor, I am delighted you have joined us,” Josephine chimed as she approached, clipboard in hand and a pep in her step. She wore a different set of robes than her typical garb, longer and more gown-like in design, but with the same signature gold stockings and shoes underneath.

“You have people who wish a casual audience with you, should you be amenable to it.”

“An audience?” Olivia grinned, eyes scanning the crowd. “Of what kind, exactly?”

“Simply a greeting befitting your presence, Your Worship. We have new people who have enlisted in our ranks, as well as several officials from abroad. It should take no more than ten or so minutes, and you may be off to socialize with whomever you wish!”

Olivia took a breath, giving Josephine a short, honesty glance of fatigue. “Alright, Josephine, if you insist.”

The Ambassador grinned and placed a hand on Olivia’s forearm, gentle and encouraging. “Hold fast, Inquisitor. I understand your weariness, but I will be at your side should you elect to delegate any details or procedures.” A smile and affirmation from Josephine Montilyet felt like enough spiritual fuel to fly, even if one had just returned from a jading mission in the desolate beyond. In spite of her feet dragging both mentally and physically, Olivia took courage from the presence of her friend and Advisor.

They walked side-by-side towards the throne, one Olivia took care to spend as little time sitting on as she could possibly manage. The feeling of a singular chair overlooking an entire mass of people, like a satirical character in one of her childhood bedtime stories, never failed to feel isolating. But, as she held onto her gown skirt with her fingers, turning to face the Hall head on, she relented once more to the stature of her position and all its discomforts. She took her seat and stilled herself as faces turned to look on.

“First, Your Worship, we have the newest group Mages enlisted into the ranks,” Josephine projected, waving a hand so as to invite them forward. The crowd parted a bit, making room for a trailing line of four women hurrying to the forefront. It was a bit endearing to watch, the way they carried handfuls of their apprentice gowns in their hands, rubbing hair out of their faces to make themselves presentable. It gave an impression of youthful vigor and inexperience.

Getting themselves together they lined up one by one facing her, curtsying in unison as if pre-choreographed. Knowing Josephine’s expectation of rightful decorum, that inference was not entirely impossible.

“Welcome, ladies,” Olivia greeted, resting one hand on her lap and the other on an armrest as she sat tall, back arched. “I am grateful you have dedicated your time and energy to this...wait, Odessa?”

The third woman to the right lifted her chin, a relieved smile appearing on her lips. That broad face, sharp jawline and those circular dark brows. The face of a moon spirit, Olivia used to lovingly tease, as if spirits could be born of planets and stars. Suddenly, the facade of anonymous youth melted, and the noises of the room drifted away from Olivia’s ears.

“My Lady...Olivia…” Odessa said, smirking with disbelief. “You have become legend since we last saw each other.”

Olivia smiled, gasping a bit as she rose from her chair. The sudden level change made those whose attention had drifted from the scene refocus. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know just who made the Inquisitor rise.

“I thought...I thought you were…” Olivia stammered, taking a step forward.

Odessa shrugged a bit, holding her arms out. “I am a tough bug to stomp out, what can I say?”

“Agh! tu es impossible d'essayer mes nerfs comme ça!” _you are impossible for testing my nerves like this!_

“J'ai plus à faire qu'essayer vos nerfs en un jour, ma dame,” _I have more to do than try your nerves in my day, my Lady._

“Ugh!” Olivia huffed, stepping down the stair and rushing to her, pulling her into a hug. The height difference favored Odessa by several inches, allowing her certain privileges like being able to wrap her arms around her waist and pull her feet off the ground to spin her around. Olivia hid her face in her shoulder and laughed, her melodic voice echoing from one end of the hall to the other. The crowd hummed and rumbled with whispers and remarks. This was not a part of any pre-planned choreography.

Josephine was not phased in the slightest as she took discrete notes down. Surprise was for amateurs -- this was a curious development, and one both her and Leliana would be especially interested in. Not knowing any connections between new people and the Inquisitor directly was cause for concern, if not gentle interest.

“Ah, your hair!” Olivia said as she reached her hand into its strands, “it is so much longer now!”

Odessa chuckled, putting her back down on the ground and pulling away from her. “You think I would have found scissors and a sharp blade just laying around with the year that has gone by?”

“You swore you’d never let it grow,” Olivia smiled, twisting a lock of it on her fingers. “How else are you going to get women, now?”

“By my stirling personality, surely,” Odessa laughed. “Olivia, it is...it is so good to see you ali--”

“Shh,” the Inquisitor interrupted, looking over either of Odessa’s shoulders as the prying eyes. Leaning in closer to her as if she were about to give her a kiss, she whispered: “Do not get sentimental more than we already have. I feast with wolves, these days.”

Odessa blinked, resisting the urge to look over and see the crowd for herself. But, the sensation of dozens of nosy eyes must have been enough to confirm Olivia’s warning, for she kept her blue eyes locked on hers.

“Ah, fine. I suppose I can’t just appear and consume all your time and attention,” she whispered back, taking a step back and sliding her hands down Olivia’s arms, until their fingers hooked onto one another. “Can we speak later?”

“Yes, much later,” Olivia nodded coyly. “Until then, I must keep my distance. Be careful, and do not answer any politely curious questions.”

“Vos désirs sont des ordres,” Odessa grinned, squeezing her hand before letting it go. _Your wish is my command._

Olivia bit back a smile. As much as the sensation proved potent, she could not simply run off into Odessa’s existence like a hijacking interlude at a soiree. Backing up and away from her, her attention shifted to the other girls who had come with her old friend, all looking on as if they had in a second’s worth of time become underqualified for their hired posts. Not everyone could be old flames of the Inquisitor’s, surely?

To make up for the breach in conduct, Olivia offered a warm and generous smile and outstretched hands.

“Ladies, please forgive me. I am excited to have you here,” she said, stepping onto the throne platform. “You are welcome here. Please enjoy this night. I look forward to working with you more closely in the days to follow.”

“Thank you, my Lady Inquisitor,” one of them said as they all bowed once more, Odessa included, though she was the last to do so.

“Thank you ladies,” Josephine interjected, side-stepping closer to Olivia with a look that said Aha, this is not over yet, friend. “You may rejoin the festivities.”

\--

After two more ‘audiences,’ Olivia was allowed to immerse herself into the fray for good, chalice and hand and peripheral vision frequently checking on Odessa’s figure across whatever orbits they traversed away from each other. Apprentice Cortiard, the pleasant but sharp personality she had too many fond memories of to know what to do with. The flood of reminiscent details was difficult to keep at bay during the hours of conversation and shallow exchanges of “how are you?” and “what cold weather these mountains have for the autumn!”

It was not long before Leliana, ever one to appear when unexpected circumstances unfolded, appeared at Olivia’s side as she talked amongst a circle of carpenters.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana said with a grin, “it is a pleasure to see you at supper.”

Olivia grinned crookedly, placing her chalice to her lips as she glanced over her shoulder at the looming Sister Nightingale. “Yes, Leliana, I am enthused as well. Shall I show you to the appetizers?”

“Yes, I would be honored,” Leliana replied, sliding her arm through the Inquisitor’s and pulling her away from the group. “If you’ll kindly excuse us, everyone,” she called back to them, as if anyone would have the lack of sense to correct or intervene on one of Leliana’s maneuvers.

Making a successful escape with her, Olivia chuckled under her breath. They walked together enjoined like schoolmates, weaving through the backs and shoulders of the people around them and trying not to bring too much attention to themselves.

“You know, we have gotten good at that,” Olivia remarked out the side of her mouth.

“Yes,” Leliana replied, eyes taking in the scene for a brief moment. “I suspect you know then why I have come.”

“Indeed. She is a friend, an old friend from Ostwick,” Olivia said in a hushed tone before taking another sip of her wine.

“Then why is it she neglected to say so when being interviewed?” Leliana asked, pushing through a narrow path between conversation groups, pulling Olivia with her. They bumped into each other as they navigated, but did not step a foot out of line.

“I have no idea,” Olivia said, brow raised a bit. “She would not be shy about such details. Knowing her, maybe she believed it would make her too questionable to hire.”

“Whether or not you know her is precisely my concern, Inquisitor,” Leliana countered as they reached the corner of one of the banquet tables, enough floor space for them to un-link their arms and stand freely side-by-side with breathing room.

Olivia smirked and shook her head. “Odessa has no reason to be duplicitous with me. She is of little standing. She was not a connected or remarkable apprentice and had no intention of being either of those things. She came from a decent family in the Free Marches, but not much else.”

“Which provides the perfect motivator to climb to new heights, do you not agree?”

“Well...I suppose. I do not think her that ambitious. Capable, yes, but conniving?”

“Ambition is not a born trait, Inquisitor, it is a craving that comes and goes depending on one’s needs that demand to be filled. Wax need only a soft flame to burn an unknowing touch. I am concerned with the ease by which she came to be here, and I will be watching closely. I am here to discourage you from letting her in too far.”

Olivia tilted her head, eyes glancing at the crackling fireplace. “And by too far, you mean?”

“Keep the knives strapped to your thighs and her from getting between them.”

Mid-sip of her cup, Olivia flinched harshly and coughed on her wine. She put the back of her hand to her lips as she cleared her throat, looking side-to-side to ensure no one caught a glimpse of her less-than-poised moment.

“But...but Leliana, I--”

“No, Inquisitor. Trust me on this. I have supported your personal intrigues and trusted you to navigate them professionally. But, on this front, I must intercede.”

“I have never let Odessa become important to me enough to…” Olivia stopped herself from saying something brash and vulnerable out in the open air of dinner. She held her breath in her chest, looking off towards the ground.

Leliana eyed her, rolling her shoulders back slightly. “Inquisitor, your personal space is a commodity that some wish to both invest and capitalize off of. Until I can know for certain that she is tied to nothing and no one that would seek to do so for the wrong reasons, I must ask that you refrain.”

“And what if I do not?” Olivia retorted bluntly, returning her gaze to her.

Leliana maintained a cool facade for the most part, though her jaw clenched a bit. “You gamble with more than just the security of yourself. If anything, think of the mess that would have to be cleaned if you act unwisely. How Josephine will have to work harder. How I will have to divert resources to erase tracks.”

“All this for one woman, one Mage?”

“No. All this for one woman, one Mage, who happens to be the leader of the Inquisition.”

Olivia bit the side of her cheek, glancing down at the limited wine in her chalice and the dark, broken reflection it gave back to her. More reflections, more distortions. She did not speak anything else, opting to nod subtly in Leliana’s direction. Needing nothing more than that apparently, Leliana bowed in return, and withdrew silently. It had been some years since Olivia had been admonished like a child for her fancies during a formal event. Yet, the surging desire to fight back had not receded with the years. She put her cup to her mouth and hocked back the last gulp and a half left in it, cheeks swollen at maximum volume as she let the acidic taste rest on her tongue.

As someone approached her from behind, she swallowed and prepared to put on a show of easygoing happiness.

“My friend,” Dorian said as he came around, placing a hand on her shoulders. “You are so short I thought this was the kids table.”

“Dorian,” Olivia smirked dryly, setting her chalice down on the table corner. “If only it were, perhaps I’d be having some fun.”

“Now now, we know what they do in your region to children who have magical match sticks for fingers,” he mused, rocking onto his toes. “How are you getting along this evening?’

“As my friend Theia would say, about as well as a Cleric gets along with the truth.”

“That poorly, then? Are you to inspire an Exalted March to reclaim your lost time, then?”

“I don’t know, would you enact Mage supremacy to reclaim yours?”

Dorian shook his head and folded his arms, a huff of air coming out his nose. “Someone has been having tea times with the Enchanter, again. You sound positively oceanic with the level of salt on your tongue.”

Olivia sighed, letting her chest loosen up as she shifted her body in his direction. The emanating warmth of the fire beside them was starting to make her sweat. At least, that made sense as a reason for her sudden lack of a dewy, calm complexion.

“Perhaps I have been kissing fish and hoping they’ll turn into a handsome Knight to come rescue me,” she exhaled, rubbing her side.

The Tevinter Mage grinned playfully at the sound of Olivia’s attempt at sore humor. She was much better at being silly than indignant.

“Inquisitor, a word of advice: waste not, what not.”

“Oh? Bold of you to assume I have anything to waste in the first place,” Olivia countered, her lips curling a bit.

“Well then, come along with me to the tavern where we can scrounge up more than enough excess. Who needs a dinner when you have walls to throw knives at and men to...well, throw knives at.”

Olivia chuckled, tilting her head onto one side. “Taverns are trouble for me, Dorian, you know this.”

“As the Ambassador would say,” he added, placing a hand on her shoulder and guiding her along with him towards the open Hall doors, “precisely.”


	41. Pulled Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for Adamant push the Council and the Inquisitor to the limit, and Olivia cannot put to bed the ways in which things have changed in her own sense of self. On top of that, the emotions Odessa's presence evokes refuse to be put to bed -- however, Olivia may prove more easily-convinced in that arena.

_23 Parvulis, 9:41 Dragon_

_Journal,_

_Something in my soul refuses to settle down, even with being back at Skyhold and resuming relatively docile operations in comparison to being on the front lines. Hawke and Stroud have returned from scouting the region surrounding Adamant, and their intelligence confirms our fears. The Wardens are constricting themselves there as the epicenter of their foolish plans to prevent the Blight._

_I cannot say for certain whether or not we are to march on Adamant soon. The writing seems to be on the wall, and yet the Council and I keep thinking of one or two details to check before we make the final call. In my heart I know it is futile, but the mortal fear in my soul says wait. I must stop listening to such hesitancies. This will be the biggest test of our forces thus far -- we cannot leave room for doubt now._

_When Leliana is not consulting with me about Adamant she is reminding me of her warning not to fraternize with Odessa, as if the two phases of my being are war Commander and naughty teenager with an itch to scratch. I have followed her advice a bit too harshly, I fear; Odessa now avoids me like I am a plague carrier. Perhaps it is for the best. I still do not know why she is here, though, and it gnaws at my mind. Her presence has irritated my lack of knowledge about the girls and whether or not Veronica’s visit was a bad or good omen. When I look at her I see my past, something tangible I can hold. At night I find my thoughts traveling to when she and I knew a different life, and had a different means of existing in the same place at the same time._

_Sometimes, I can still hear her scream my name, and it makes me want to rip my pillow apart with my bare teeth._

_I am getting flustered. This is enough for now._

_OBS_

\--

The concoction of tension and silence in the room was so domineering, it was as though a falling strand of hair would make too much noise. On one end of the table, double-sided written pages of reports, numbers, and estimations. On the other, the map of Orlais and the western lands beyond it, with table pieces and pawns scattered across the various regions. Outposts, Scouted locations, camps, and strongholds. But, there was one piece that was larger than all the rest -- and it was placed squarely on Adamant.

Olivia stood with her arms folded, hand to her chin and mouth. Across from her, Leliana paced shortly and slowly on her corner, while Josephine and Cullen both stood still. They had the report from Hawke and Stroud. They had the confirmation. The predictions, the worst case scenarios, all spoken into existence. There was no more room for speculation on either end of the matter. Yet, the final breath of wind that was needed for the dominos to tumble remained in the reservoir of the Inquisitor’s chest, waiting.

“You said our numbers are sufficient -- is that with or without the trainees?” Olivia asked Cullen, not moving an inch.

“Without recruits and trainees, our numbers are still adequate. Not as comfortable, but adequate.”

“And the trebuchets we discussed?”

Josephine nodded. “Secured and at the ready, Inquisitor. They would be stationed before the arrival of our troops, under guard.”

Olivia took a reassured breath. “Do we have a final estimation on how long it will take to march from here to Adamant?”

“Our estimations based on your expedition to the Approach have helped to inform us on the length of time necessary. If the Imperial Highway is clear of all considerable obstacles, the majority of our forces could be there in three weeks, give or take several days.”

“Is that soon enough, you think?” Olivia countered cautiously, lifting her chin.

Leliana and Josephine eyed each other from across the table, before Leliana took the duty of responding for herself. “All details from Hawke and Stroud’s writings suggest disrupting the ritual at the Imperium set them back in their process. Their...tactics, must be practiced adequately before whatever it is they are orchestrating can be carried through. They have the same traveling constrictions as we do.”

“They have direct access to the Approach and surrounding regions, though,” the Inquisitor replied, taking a step forward.

“Not anymore, Your Worship. Since securing the keep and the surrounding territories, the Wardens have increased pressure to remain consolidated where they are.”

“But is that enough to discourage them from expediting their plans? If anything, our proximity would provide reason to hurry, would it not?”

“Not if what is being planned cannot be rushed,” Leliana suggested, coming to a stop.

Once again, the room filled with a silence on the edge of decision. Not even a breeze or change in temperature. Olivia held her breath, the weight of what she would have to say bearing down on her tongue and between her teeth. For as much as her life had been removed from the lore and shadow of the Grey Wardens, she had to contend with the fact that this would almost certainly end badly, and history books would have to contain passages on this time. If history books would be able to be written at all in the future, that is.

“Can we have everyone prepared to leave in two week’s time?” she asked, once again of Cullen.

Shifting his weight onto one side, he inhaled and nodded softly. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Then make it one and a half, tops. I want troops well-fed and worked the rest of this week. I also want curfew to be two hours earlier. Leliana, go ahead with the plan for recon that you submitted to me this morning, and see if they can’t be deployed as early as Wednesday. Josephine, I trust you know what to do securing our stops for the voyage. I ask also that you raise Dagna and Harritt’s wages a percentage to account for the hours and labor they will be undertaking to restock weaponry for this.” Olivia had began to pace from side to side, fingertips rubbing against each other as she listed off decisions. “Is there anything else I am missing?”

“Your chosen team, Inquisitor,” Leliana replied.

Taking a breath, Olivia looked up towards the stained-glass windows. Theoretically she could put off this decision, but such a route would be most unforgiving to the allies that would have to mentally and physically prepare for an all-out siege. There could be no dancing or circumventing this decision. Not this time. Sucking her teeth, she lowered her chin and her gaze back towards them.

“Send orders to Solas, Cassandra, and Bull. If for one reason or another someone cannot follow through, then Vivienne can replace them.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Leliana replied, taking several sheets of parchment into her hands and looking over the written words on them again. “I imagine we will have little trouble on that front.”

“I agree. Is there anything else needed tonight?”

Cullen and Josephine exchanged glances. Shaking her head, the Ambassador took to writing spare notes on her board. “Nothing else is marked on the agenda, Inquisitor. We may adjourn until tomorrow morning.”

“I have nothing to add,” the Commander added, his shoulders pushed back.

“Good. Then we are marching.”

\--

The balcony was a lonely place to be when it felt like the world had a hunger to bite into you in every which direction you looked. Sometimes, Olivia would stand out in the middle and look towards the north, east, and west, and wonder which would yield the least danger, the least amount of enemies ready to strike her down. It was a wonder how any leader did not fall to claustrophobia, if they managed to survive the perils of violence, nature, and the supernatural. Safe to say, Olivia had no plans to re-enter the public eye that evening. Dressing in a long, dark, thick skirt tied around her waist, and a band of the same fabric around her chest and twist-tied like a halter-top, she looked like one of the female warriors of the Qunari wearing a “casual” antaam-sar knock-off. Gifts and tidings from merchants were getting more unique and obscure by the week.

Hearing a disturbance back inside her quarters, she drifted back into the present moment. Glancing back, she saw a head of black hair rise to the top of the stairs, and then the fur-lined shoulders of a Mage’s gown.

Odessa.

“I have the last of the project reports from the library, Inquisitor,” she said, stack of papers in her hands.

Olivia grinned, turning to face her and pointing halfheartedly towards her desk. “Agh, thank you, Odessa. You may place them there.”

Odessa stared at her for a lingering moment, seeming to pick up on the off-kilter mood. But she did not disobey. Walking pointedly for the desk and setting down the stack squarely in the center, she noticed the messy stacks of books surrounding her little office corner. Some open with pages bent or crinkled, others placed off out of sight with the promise to be properly shelved. Taking a closer look, she noticed dried candle-wax stains on the hardwood table top, ink splatters and spills covered by other objects but nonetheless peeking their discolorations.

Olivia was not a passive hostess -- having crept to the side of the balcony doorway, she watched as Odessa did her harmless snooping, standing still several yards from her.

“Something catch your eye?” the Inquisitor finally asked.

Odessa flinched a bit. A nervous smile framed her face. “I, agh...well, it wouldn’t be the first time I got caught by the tail of my wandering gaze, right?”

Olivia smirked, leaning a shoulder up against the stone wall. “No, not by my recollection.”

“You would know better than most. I, uh…” Odessa stuttered, rubbing the back of her neck. “I wondered how you...were.”

“I cannot answer questions like that honestly nowadays, or else I’d stop getting invited to parties.” Rocking back onto her feet, Olivia bit the side of her lip and took several steps towards her, skirt dragging along the floor a few inches. “How are you? It’s been, what, a month and a half since you started?”

“About so, yes.” Odessa’s posture straightened up as the Inquisitor drew closer. Noticing it, Olivia stopped and folded her arms.

“Look, I never got to...apologize, for not seeing you after the banquet,” she replied, eyes flickering between Odessa’s face and her desk. “I was kept late by social responsibilities.”

“Oh, yes, I heard the tavern was most in need of the Inquisitor’s heroism. Who else would conquer the vast enmity of an ale barrel?” Odessa responded curtly, a new fuel to her demeanor. If it was one thing the Inquisitor could not avoid by virtue of her new position, it was people who understood when she was bullshitting. Odessa’s importance to her notwithstanding, they had shared too much for such tactics to fly over her head.

Olivia exhaled sharply, looking off to the side. “Look, Odessa--”

“Don’t ‘look, Odessa,’ me, Olivia. You went from hugging me in front of throng of people to dodging me like a ghost. Did I do something to offend your vanity? Are you now too important to associate with the small people you were once one of?”

“It is not that simple, Odessa. I have responsibilities, my image and my behaviors are tracked like deer by dogs and men!”

“I find it hard to believe that a Mage who once lifted her skirts to my hand in a closet with Templars on the other side of the door has a proper respect for what others would think of her conduct,” Odessa spat back before walking off towards the center of the room, hand on her hip.

“Odessa!” Olivia groaned, her arms falling to her sides. “Would you just listen to me?”

“I have listened to your actions well enough to deafen the ears of ten men, Olivia. What else could you possibly say to me to convince me otherwise?”

The Inquisitor paused, rolling her eyes and following after her. For a few breaths, there was nothing -- no words, no sounds, no emotion. She was so tired of the silence. It had haunted her on and off since she returned to Skyhold, loomed on her shoulders during the Council meeting, and now this. When Odessa turned around and faced her with those deep blue eyes rampant with wrath, it was as though her limit for soundlessness boiled over.

“If you want the truth, then fine! I did want to see you, but you had to lie about your origins to my Spymaster and Ambassador. Because of that I had to divert myself from you while you are investigated for duplicity. Why are you here, Odessa? Tell me honestly!”

Odessa’s lips parted, her eyes wide. “You would suspect me of being a double agent here? For what purpose and what party?”  
“If you are here of your own individual volition then why lie about knowing me, or being from Ostwick?”

“I did not lie, I just neglected to tell the truth. I had my reasons, as you did for negating the reality of your life after the Circles came crashing down.”

Olivia scoffed. “So now you’ll hold the truth ransom because I, too, committed crimes of survival? Classic Odessa, always dancing around the subject for no good reason other than to be a pain!”

Odessa growled, hands turning to fists. “Some things never change, Olivia. For one, that bitter mouth of yours, and your hypocrisy.”

“Oh, I’m hypocritical?!” Olivia whirled around, stopping in her tracks with a finger pointed to her own chest. “Tell me, then, where is the Odessa who told me she pitied the other women who tracked after their lovers like sad puppies instead of taking a hint. Because from where I stand, all I see is a sniveling snout pouting for table scraps.”

Odessa inhaled stiffly, rendered speechless by Olivia’s rebuttal.

Having blown enough hostile smoke into the air between them, Olivia scowled and shifted towards the wall, slowly and rigidly walking towards it. Her jaw was tense enough to grind pebbles to dust if she willed it. She could sense it: Odessa’s mana, the wildly untapped nature of it, ebbing and spitefully rising. It was no secret what it was prelude to. It was the kind of sensation that flowed in the air between them whenever she was about to cry. Turned away from her, she could almost bet that if she were to glance back, the whites of her eyes would be glimmering red.

But then, she heard her gasp, her nose sniffling. The stakes came crashing down.

Whirling around, Olivia put her hand to her open mouth. “Oh, Odessa, no, no, no…”

Across the open floor Odessa had stood to the side, hands across her stomach as she stifled sobbing in front of her. The walls crumbled when Olivia went to her, taking her hands into hers and guiding her arms around her sides, pulling her into a hug. As her arms went under her arms and up her back, Olivia felt her break down fully against her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Odessa,” Olivia cooed, tilting her cheek against the side of her head and neck. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me. I didn’t mean to...to...”

“You’re a-an ass, t-that h-hasn’t changed,” Odessa mumbled with a brittleness in her voice, her breathing sharp and hoarse.

“You’re right. You’re always right.”

“I know I am r-right, you...a-ass.”

Olivia smirked, hugging her tighter.

They stayed embraced for another minute, Odessa allowing herself to cry and Olivia allowing herself to be who she once was: the woman who would, could, and did hold her for such things. Once she calmed enough to wipe her face only to have it be soaked some more, Odessa stepped back and out of the Inquisitor’s hold. Her face was unevenly pink and red, eyelids swollen.

“I’m...ugh, forgive me. I should not have come here.”

“No, don’t say that. I’m glad you did,” Olivia replied, placing a hand on her arm.

“I did not used to be such a crybaby. You remember. I was always the wild one, the one...the one who had the fun.”

Olivia grinned sorely. “Much has happened since those days, Odessa.” Withdrawing her hand, she let out an anxious breath and peered to the left, checking the color of the darkening sky out through the windows.

Odessa wiped her face with the excess fabric on her shirt sleeve. “I only wanted to see you. I was stationed at a refugee camp to help Healers when I caught word that you were here. When...when I heard that you had become Inquisitor, I had to see for myself. I wanted to help, but I was not sure what I would find.”

Olivia faced her again. “Is that all? You promise me?”

“Yes. I would not wish to bring you harm.”

“I...I do not know if I can trust you.”

“Why? You know me. I may be crying at the drop of a sovereign these days, but I am not that different from who you knew me to be.”

Olivia opened her mouth to reply, but she only exhaled, shaking her head. “Odessa, you could be a transparent spirit before me, and I would still doubt whether or not I would be seeing all there is to you. This life, this...this thing in my hand…” Olivia held out her left palm, the small green epicenter of pulsating light showing itself.

Odessa’s brows lifted, but she did not gawk or gasp. In some ways, her reaction felt worse than if she were to have gaped in horror. Like she had looked upon a friend in the field with a fatal wound, and realized there was no salvation.

“I…” Olivia blinked fast, “I am bound to this. I cannot be as I was, and things cannot be as they were.”

“Bullshit, they can’t.”

Odessa’s hand clasped with her left palm as she pulled it to her mouth, kissing the soft skin on its back. The sight of her, the solemn act of recommenced devotion quietly devastated Olivia. She froze, unable to run or hide from the twist in the situation she had created by virtue of her instability. A tear fell loose from her eyes, falling fast and gently grazing her cheek. She let out a soft, helpless breath.

“Odessa, don’t--”

“Olivia. When is the last time a woman touched you?”

“I...what? Odessa, don’t be ridiculous…”

Odessa opened her eyes fully, then, a new shade of emboldened in her irises. She let go of her hand but only in the name of grabbing something else: the side of Olivia’s face, thumb stroking across her tear-stained skin.

“I said, when is the last time someone touched you?”

Olivia’s eyes glazed a bit as she leaned just a bit into her touch. It was familiar, even after all this time.

“Odessa,” she muttered, blinking her eyes open and closed once. “I do not want anything. I am still the way I was. I do not, I cannot belong to anyone.”

“That wasn’t my question, you foolish ass.” Odessa then grabbed the side of her waist, pushing her backwards until her lower back was against the top of the couch facing the fireplace. Leaning in, her mouth breathing hot air against hers, she let her fingers gently tread down the middle of Olivia’s abdomen. Taking in the new muscular tone of it, she grinned sweetly, reaching the rim of her skirt’s waistband.

Olivia’s eyes were half-closed at that point, her lips parted. In that moment she could only picture what she wanted: where she wanted Odessa’s trustworthy hand to go, where she wanted it to explore, become reacquainted with after all this time.

“I don’t want you like that, Olivia,” Odessa whispered, “I just want you as I always did: whatever you’re willing to give, for however long you give it.”

Olivia opened her eyes one final time, looking into hers only inches away. In them she saw nothing but darkness she wanted to submerge herself into. No doubts, no unknown. No unexplored mystery. Just an oblivion that felt somewhere familiar, a paradox that promised euphoria.

Her top lip grazed Odessa’s as they hung there, suspended on the anticipation of her consent. No words left. Olivia’s hand wandered up towards the back of her neck, pulling the free strand end of the fabric to her top, undoing the knot that held it all in place, she relented. It was then their lips combined, hungry, deep, but intrepid. Odessa sent her hands up Olivia’s back, catching the falling fabric and pulling it down the rest of the way. There was no need wait on the wasteful bashfulness of gravity to do a woman’s work.


	42. Bedded Enmities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth arises of Olivia's latest tryst, though the guise if pleasure and excess hides the friction Olivia's shifted perspective incurs with that of her former fellow-Apprentice. The days fall closer and closer to their leave for Adamant, putting more pressure on her affair to provide distraction rather than center the spotlight on how the Inquisition has changed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: NSFW for sexual content.

_A note, passed between agents under Sister Nightingale’s:_

_Inform the boss. New lover. It’s the one she said to keep an eye on. She’ll want to know._

\--

Rumors circulated Skyhold like a menacing stormfront. Within a day and a half, everyone knew that the woman the Inquisitor embraced at the banquet had bedded her -- or vice versa, or some mixture of both. Perhaps neither, and it was on a table or against some bookshelf. But that was merely a footnote to the true piece of intrigue people had been biting into: the alleged argument it sparked between the Herald of Andraste herself and the Spymaster. Some reported to hear yelling, almost cat-like in pitch, from the Raven’s nest high in the tower. Others said they heard knives hitting walls and clashing with each other. A maid said in passing to one of her peers that she thought she saw bird scratches on the back of the Inquisitor’s neck one morning.

While there were indeed scratches, they were from a slightly different source, one Odessa would probably not like to disburse.

Alas the level of truth of the theories as to what transpired failed to hit the proper mark. It was not a screaming match that evolved the afternoon following Olivia’s first night with her friend, nor was it a collision of dual-bladed colleagues.

“You honestly believe that I had simply expected you to follow my word, Inquisitor? Is that kind of amateur’s play something you expect from me after all this time?” Leliana asked, a humorous grin on her face.

Olivia stood at her side, overlooking the view from the nest railing, not-too-comforted by her demeanor. She hadn’t exactly pinned down what she would have expected her reaction to be, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“Wait a minute,” she said, tilting her head towards her, “you planned on me defying your recommendation?”

“Of course I did.”

“But...but then…? What?!”

Leliana smirked, gathering her hands behind her back. “Inquisitor, even you are not beyond the realm of my expertise. I knew you would seek her company even without my advice to avoid it. My addendum was merely an...ironic encouragement.”

“You evoked my spiteful temper in order to send me running into her naked embrace is what you did, Leliana. And I am not sure whether to be impressed or terrified.”

“Certainly you can manage both, given the array of your duties.”

Olivia scoffed. “You are getting sweet, sweet pleasure from this, are you not?”

Leliana shifted to the side, facing the Inquisitor head on for moment before turning back to her work desk. “I will admit it, the way your face looks pinker than a nug is quite humorous.”

Olivia’s eyes widened, and she looked away in order to conceal what yet lingered of her dignity. Following after the Spymaster as they gathered back around her desk, she hoped the rush of color in her cheeks would subside in a timely manner, lest she be unable to get any productive work accomplished.

“I will not deny that I did it with intention,” Leliana at last confessed. “I believe at times it is best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer. With her under your nose you can pass along any curious information she lets slip to me. As it stands, I have no leads which warrant concern, but that may change.”

“I still do not understand why we must pursue this with everything we have going on,” Olivia admitted, leaning her hip on the edge of the table. “She is an old friend, from the same Circle as I. Certainly there are dozens of other Mages out there who have the same criteria.”

“That may be so. However, there is more that I did not tell you. I wished to wait until you had...secured, a certain extent of closeness with her,” Leliana said as she shifted around papers sprawled across the table. “My men intercepted a note left in waiting for interception on the grounds below, by the stables.” Picking up what looked to be a half-burnt scrap of dirty paper, she unfolded it and held it out to the Inquisitor.

Olivia’s brow creased as she took it from her, thumbs flattening out the side with legible writing. It read like a signal to dispatch someone of importance, citing that a “she” would be returning soon from abroad. It didn’t take much to ascertain that the “she” in question was most likely her. The Inquisitor’s whereabouts were pertinent information across all of Thedas, it wasn’t difficult to assume that people passing notes within the fortress itself would be keen on capitalizing off of that demand.

“So, someone was sent here, but for what reason?” Olivia wondered aloud, looking up from the note.

Leliana folded her arms. “That is precisely my concern. It was too coincidental to have Odessa show and find this awaiting pick-up from whoever it was meant for. For all I knew, she was the suspect sent. For what reason, I am unsure. I have two of my best people on the hunt for more leads. Until then, the level of possible danger remains concerning.”

Olivia shrugged stiffly, setting the paper back on the desk. “It is so close to our departure for Adamant. Surely this is not the first time someone or something has been sent my way, for whatever reason.”

“Yes, Inquisitor, but how many of those incidences were you made aware of by virtue of their risk level?”

“Well...I…” Olivia hesitated, at once stumped as no names or ordeals came immediately to mind. Her sudden confusion made Leliana smirk smugly.

“Exactly. We have managed to thwart and intercept most every potential threat thus far, my people and myself. This will not be an exception, though its persistence is...unexpected.”

“...Fair enough. I will stay vigilant. Let me know if there is anything else you need of me, and maybe not via manipulation of my innermost desires?”

Leliana grinned, shoulders shifting more towards her. “I cannot promise anything, Inquisitor, though I respect your commitment.”

\--

Four days and nights passed after Leliana and Olivia’s discussion of possible spies, and while the matter was important, it did not warrant the Inquisitor locking her doors at night.

If she had, she would not have had the chance to learn that being little spoon had its advantages. Besides being kept warm with the feeling of bare, soft skin at your back, you could also conceal the way you face changed with your whirlwind of busy thoughts. Multitasking at its finest. Olivia was appreciating this as she lay in her bed, Odessa’s hand draped around her side. They hardly bothered with covering themselves in the sheets and blankets, thin layers of salted sweat inspiring a slight chill in the open air.

She was staring off into space, hair oily and tangled around her face. The only thing keeping her attached to the moment was the subtle sensation of Odessa’s fingers tracing lazy circles on the side of her stomach. Three nights shared and little intricacies had already become habitual. Where once the women had known sparse trysts scattered throughout weeks of time in the Circle, dodging and escaping the eyes and ears of Templars when they could, now there was only solitude within a spacious private bedchamber with half-eaten fruit and wine poured in chalices. It was as if one of their lackluster fantasies they held onto for their sanity had engulfed reality. But, as far as Olivia was concerned, such a thing was anything but an escape.

“Something entertaining happened today,” Odessa hummed warmly, cheek pressed against her lover’s shoulder blade.

Olivia blinked her eyes to clear her vision, a puff of air escaping her nose. “You will quickly find that is more of the rule than the exception here.”

“Not everyone throws themselves into the path of fade rifts and maniacal politicians. Some of us have to find thrill in the day-to-day grind, my Lady Inquisitor.”

“Pray you never have to be dispatched abroad, then,” Olivia giggled, tucking her hands between her chin and her pillow. She sighed gently through her nose, not bothering to provoke.

“It was the Seeker, of all people.”

Olivia’s eyes shot open wide, and she immediately flipped onto her back. Her knee-jerk reaction surprised Odessa, who looked at her as if she was about to fly off like a spooked bird as holding her hands up over her chest. She had the thin linen sheet tucked under her arms, covering her from the chest down.

Olivia paused, holding her breath for a moment before letting her lips part. “What about the Seeker?”

“Easy, animal. You can have the last scraps of meat,” Odessa teased, snickering softly.

“I am not...I am not overreacting, Odessa. It is important to me that know if anything comes up with my allies…”

“Sure, sure. And I am the Divine incarnate.”

“Ugh, do not joke like that. I cannot have that be the latest toss-in ingredient to the rumors already in the world about me,” Olivia said as she rolled her eyes and patted her pillow harshly.

Odessa laughed a bit at the saltiness of her disposition, reaching her arm under her shoulders. Leaning in to place gentle, but deliberate kisses on the outer side of her forearm, tracing up all the way until the indentation of her collar bone, she fought against Olivia’s busybody attitude and eventually convinced her wordlessly to settle into her hold.

Olivia sighed as she tucked herself against her, hands to herself against her chest and stomach. “Seriously, Odessa. What happened?” she persisted, feeling the fellow Mage rest her chin against the top of her head.

“It was nothing earth-shattering in consequence,” Odessa played, bending a knee upwards, the sheet sliding off of it. “Surely it would not concern you.”

“It is not about whether it is...oh, can you just tell me?” Olivia argued.

“Alright, fine, but you were warned...”

“Je déteste quand tu stalle comme ça,” Olivia growled a bit. I hate when you stall like this.

Odessa chuckled, her chest shaking. “You love and argue like you are running out of time.”

“That is because I am, Odessa. That, and patience.”

Odessa huffed, her arm around Olivia’s shoulders pulling her in a bit tighter. Despite her attitude, the Inquisitor did not resist it.

“She came to the library today, and for some reason she helped one of the other Mages sorting a recent shipment of books. She was there for over an hour, and everytime we looked up she was still there, helping Lilith. Bridgette was most annoyed, but even she was all besotted at her gallantry. They asked her why she came around and she only said it was on the way, that she had business with the Spymaster. It was like a fish out of water, a Chantry warrior not beating up some unsuspecting victim or pretending their straw dummies are Mages to cut down.”

Olivia’s ears hung on every word, though she took care to tuck her face out of Odessa’s direct line of vision. The careless way she discussed the Seeker made her blood simmer; Odessa knew nothing about Cassandra. Her musings were preposterous, and she would know if she had just spent more than five minutes mocking her from a distance. But on the other hand, she could not deny that just months ago those assumptions were all the same in her own head. She would have sooner believed Griffons appearing in the sky like migrating geese than Cassandra voluntarily working with Mages in any capacity. There still remained the fact that Cassandra had wandered into the library and purposefully engaged with them, as if she was not who she was. 

“I don’t believe you,” Olivia replied after a pause, “you’re pulling my leg.”

“I am not! I swear on my life.”

“Cassan--the Seeker does her best to stay out of the Mage’s affairs here.”

Odessa chuckled. “Well, gossip says she enjoys stepping into yours quite frequently.”

Olivia shot up, propping herself on her arm as she looked down at Odessa, eyes narrowed and immediately hostile. The cascade of blonde waves falling behind her, always inviting curious hands to reach and risk the burn it may bring should she reject curiosity. Her scowl was met by an unimpressed Odessa, rolling onto her side with her head held up by her arm resting on the pillow beneath her. She had a brow raised, as if she were paying attention to more than just what Olivia was saying with her mouth.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” she coaxed with parted lips, her tongue peeking from between her rows of white teeth.

“Who says that about me? The other Mages? They gossip about me every which way,” Olivia asked with malice lacing her tongue as she leaned further away. Gathering her knees together, she slid out of bed and towards her robes and night dress strewn over the nearest lounge chair.

Odessa watched her go, resting her free hand on her own hip. “I thought you jaded and uninterested in the leagues of rumors surrounding you?”

“I am, but why do they have to wander into my bed?” As Olivia spoke, Vivienne’s lauded advice echoed in her mind. Only now, as she slipped her night dress over her head to let it slink down her body, she realized she had not been as careful about following lately. The dull ache between her thighs, lower back, and jaw were only compounding evidence.

“Olivia, don’t go setting something on fire,” Odessa said as she sat up, holding the sheet to her chest as she curled her legs up under her. “It was a tease, a foolish tease. You know me, I was never good at pillow talk.”

“Huh, wow, such modesty,” Olivia bit back as she pulled her hair out from her dress, reaching for her robes.

“Hey, don’t!” Odessa at once slid out of bed on her side, coming around in a rushed walk. In an instant she was in front of her, hands placed gently on her forearms as she intervened. The soft, dwindling fireplace draping both shadows and light up and down her nude shape, highlighting the scars and scrapes where they hid under her clothes.

Olivia’s temper was softened by the look of her, much to her chagrin. Her eyes still glowed with unrepentant light, her muscles stiff.

“What?” she asked bluntly, head tilted.

Odessa sighed lightly, grabbing hold of the robe in Olivia’s hand. “Don’t go.”

“You thought I was going somewhere?”

“You always do. You always did,” she replied, looking down at the soft satin fabric that slid like water out of her grip. “You are the woman for which the phrase “hard to hold” was invented.”

Olivia eyed her, but even she could not resist a smirk escaping her lips. She looked towards the rugged floor, releasing her grip on the robe so as to relinquish it to Odessa. Once she did, she folded her arms and gazed back up towards the balcony doors beyond Odessa’s shoulder.

“Forgive me,” she admitted at last, “my mind is everywhere with preparations for Adamant. I feel as if there is one more issue to toss on my plate the entire dining table will split in two.”

“It is alright, I understand! I shouldn’t have said anything. I know you have...tastes for pain along with pleasure, but, even I would say messing around with a Chantry official to be a step beyond your brand of self-loathing.”

“Ahah...uh-huh,” Olivia giggled nervously, taking ahold of her elbow. Her stomach was like a sack of bricks hurling through the floor beneath her. “I...suppose you are right.”

“Reminds me of all those girls we used to cackle sadly about, the way they’d pine for the Templars. At least they knew their crushes liked women, though. Can’t say the same for Lady Pout-of-Death, right?” Odessa laughed softly, unable to recite her joke without being pleased with herself.

Olivia fought the urge to glare, the simmering in her blood rising to a low boil. For what, she did not fully understand. Was it the implication that she was a lesser Mage for even hypothetically being fond of someone like Cassandra, or the offenses towards the Seeker’s character? Was it both, or neither? Whatever it was, it made the comforting and apologies sting more than soften.

“Odessa, you hardly know her. Perhaps you should...take care, with criticizing her. You did say she helped today.”

Odessa scoffed. “Yes, sometimes the Templars did, too, remember? Picking up books and then burning them kindly. Opening doors for us just to kick us through when we went too slow. So kind, so hospitable. And when they weren’t so nice, Seekers would show and rectify the situation, yes? Oh, no, my mistake, they had too much to do, what with skulking in the shadows and slapping murderers on the wrists.”

“She is not like that,” Olivia said low, chest hollowed out with growing nervousness.

“Does it matter if she is? She still supported those who are like that, her and her kind.”

“And what exactly are her kind?”

“Genocide apologists? Honestly, Olivia, I’m surprised it is not you going for the jugular for once. You were always ranting my ear off in the Circle. Have you been locked up in a room of burning elf root?”

Olivia had to stop herself from biting down any harder on the side of her cheek, unless she wanted to explain why she needed to shove a napkin in her mouth to soak up blood. Turning to the side, she folded her arms and tried her best to look contemplative rather than bitter. Her pout only incited more flirtatious pining from Odessa, who grinned and tossed the robe back onto the chair before coming closer to her. She then reached her arms around her sides, leaning her head into the crook of Olivia’s neck so as to kiss it. The weight of her grip increased, pulling Olivia into her and against her body as her mouth traced up her skin towards the corner of her jaw. Her lips were like ripe fruit, soft and inviting taste. Olivia rolled her eyes closed, half-pleasure and half-indignance at the state of things. Tilting her head back to expose more kissable skin to Odessa’s mouth, the ceiling colors blurred together.

“You know, all this talk has reminded me of how irresistable you are when your eyes light up with fury,” Odessa mumbled, stepping slowly back towards the bed and taking her with her. Olivia complied, hands resting on her shoulders but not matching the rigor of her hold.

“Oh? I would think my enemies in the field would have caveats to that,” Olivia said begrudgingly.

Odessa chuckled against her, her mouth pulling away so she could look her directly in the eye. She sat back onto the bed, legs spread and gripping around her sides. She knew what she was good at, and when it was most needed to rescue a sore situation back from the brink.

“Just like old times, huh? Us feuding and then...well, not feuding.”

“That is very clever. Tell me where you learned such masterful foreplay banter, I am eager to know.”

Odessa snickered, unbothered by the less-than-subtle resentment in Olivia’s tone. Now bedside, she diverted her attentions to a more direct form of distraction, pulling up the front of Olivia’s night dress. Clutching the slippery silken material in fistfulls until the hem bunched up around her hips, she kept her eyes locked on hers with a subtle deliberateness in them.

Olivia gazed back, still playing cold and coy. “Are you satisfied with what you have found?” she asked, brow raised.

Odessa bit her lip, pulling on the dress and bringing her even closer. Sliding a hand between her thighs and up into her, two fingers wading in, her eyes flickered up and down.

“Who says I have found it just yet? I think…” she played, her hand going in deeper and making Olivia stiffen, jaw clenched. “That question would sound so much better moaned face down into your pillow.”

There was a shiver up her spine. Thoughtless criticism aside, Odessa knew how to make a sales pitch. Without the closets, pantries, or empty sleeping dormitories to creep around for a quick time, her love was more indulgent. It left the source of the Inquisitor’s apathy up to interpretation, for surely such an upgrade would inspire giddiness in any other person. With the rhythm of her fingers against her clit quickened ever-so-slightly, making her knees lose a bit of stability in their strength, Olivia fell short of those happy expectations. She exhaled a mouthful of tense air, impatience boiling on her throat.

She opened her eyes, irises on fire but unsure of which internal struggle of emotions sourced their brilliance. Enough was enough. Her hands went to Odessa’s shoulders and pushed her with a vengeance, her palms hot to the touch. Odessa did not fight back or wince at it, sprawling herself back onto the sheets, her hands up around her chest. Smiling fiendishly, she placed the soaked fingers she had enticed Olivia with in her mouth, sucking on the first and then the second as Olivia climbed on top of her to straddle her hips. Bearing down on her, Olivia watched her inch-for-inch: how her fingers slipped from her lips, the pristine softness of her complexion. It only made her more ambivalent, more eager to be gratified out of spite.

At once she leaned down and pressed her lips to hers, the taste of her own self still lingering on Odessa’s tongue. Her hands went possessively into her black hair, pulling and clutching handfuls of the shoulder-length strands as she pulled her into hers. Odessa’s chest arched into her, begging for touch that Olivia wasn’t going to give up front. No, her hands remained on either side of her face, tangled in hair, without a hope to go anywhere else.

Odessa’s hands were much more ambitious, as one gripped onto her thigh and the other wandered back to where it was between her legs and up into the hilt of her. Feeling the depth of her penetration Olivia shifted her weight up, but only to rock back onto its pressure with deep vigor. Her hips shuddered a bit as Odessa combined two fingers inside her with a thumb on her clit, rocking and swaying with her in the deepest hold. Yes, Olivia was hard to hold -- until she wasn’t. Generally, it helped if you knew how to make her stain the sheets beyond use and her eyes roll into her head.

All seemed to be progressing well enough, as it always did when Olivia shut her mouth and Odessa opened herself up for the taking. Even Olivia’s grim attitude had began to melt away, the priority of euphoria reigning supreme. If only Odessa hadn’t decided to moan so deep, with a voice so cavernous and thick in her throat that it could have blended in with thunder. A barreling sound, sultry and from her core.

Grinding against her, Olivia suddenly pictured the only other place she heard such a sound: the sparring ring down outside in the early morning fog. Recruits and trainees lined up and going at it with each other, clashing and slamming dulled practice blades. Amidst their rows, a seasoned warrior took her own time, wearing only a sleeveless leather vest and breeches with padded thighs. She was growling and cursing under her breath, taking on one of the feisty upstarts, a man who had gotten a little too used to imposing his brutish weight on his female counterparts. Cullen probably sent him her way to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget about such habits. One shoulder shove of his shield too many, Cassandra growled and shirked him off, rounding the block off with a swift kick in the center of his shield. The man went stumbling down to the ground, sniveling a bit from the sound and might of his superior who then stood over him.

The sweat glistening on her bare arms and jaw. That jaw, period. The way she stood with her back arched, shield on one arm and a sword in another. At the time Olivia denied herself the fixation, but now that she was far away from it in both space and time, she granted herself the privilege. As she did, her body persisted with the motions of her and Odessa’s embrace, the memory replaying and lingering in her mind. Her hips, rolling over and over, answering the way her body wanted to get lost in the pressure. The pressure Cassandra was slowly having her accrue in the deepest parts of her hidden self, humming prayers for vindication somehow, some way.

It was a couple minutes of this before the Inquisitor could not stomach it any longer, when the pang of self-conscious guilt flooded her chest. Her heart raced not just from the ecstasy but the implications of her wandering imagination. This had to stop, or else she would become the brunt of the joke.

“Mmm, agh!” she groaned with aggravation in her tone, her motions going to a halt immediately. Freezing in place with her lips hovering over Odessa’s, she opened her eyes to look down at her.

Odessa jerked her head back, alarmed at the sound she made. “Have I hurt you?” she whispered, brow furrowed with sincere care.

Olivia’s mouth remained agape as she steadied her heavy breathing, her face full of hopeless dread. “I...no...you did not. I am just...just tired, is all. I do not think I have it in me. Can we...can we just rest a while? Please?”

Odessa’s eyes narrowed a bit, her gaze switching back and forth from her eyes to her lips. Her silence at first was nerve-wracking, but when her expression softened, there was hope that the excuse had been sincerely believed after all.

“Of course,” she whispered in resignation. Her hand once again withdrew from Olivia, and she scooted up onto her elbows.

Olivia grinned and nodded once before rolling off onto the bed, slowing her motions so as to appear fatigued and ill-at-ease. It didn’t take long for Odessa to follow her lead, though she was much more...energetic, in her body language. Perhaps eager to put the dismissal of her advance in the past. She kept her face angled away from Olivia, an effort that proved successful because Olivia had no intention of seeking it out in the first place -- she was too busy hiding her own expression and whatever clues it would be giving as to her true preoccupation.

As they settled back into bed, sheets pulled and yanked over them, Olivia didn’t know what to do with the awkwardness that brewed underneath the guise of sweetness in the air. The only peace offering she had the energy to give was to roll over and reach an arm around Odessa’s waist from behind, electing to be the bigger spoon this time. Thankfully, Odessa was willing to humor her, melting into her hold curve-for-curve. Olivia heard her let out a exasperated sigh as they settled down, and she tightened her hold on her. Once the quiet took its place, and there was no more sheet rustling or heavy breathing to be done, she closed her eyes and let the mortification within her heart have her body instead.

“Can you take care of the candles?” Odessa asked simply.

Olivia obeyed, inhaling air into her chest. Opening her mouth in a small “O,” she blew out a sharp exhale against Odessa’s shoulder. With it the candles, much like Olivia’s heart, lost their flame for the night.


	43. Love's Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia spends a morning handling weapons and inventory with Cassandra, though what she originally thought would be something enjoyable takes a turn. Their subsequent arguing sends her spinning, unclear now of what she wants or needs but emboldened in her stubbornness. A pep talk from Josephine stems the tide of her self-pity.

_29 Parvulis, 9:41 Dragon_

_Journal,_

_In two days we leave for Adamant. I keep trying to think of what to say in this entry, since I have decided not to bring my journal book with me. I do not want it stolen or lost, ending up in the wrong hands. If it is here, Josephine will know what to do should anything happen to it -- and in that case, writing any more within these pages seems rather fruitless._

_These are days when I feel the eyes of history on my neck most of all. I wish Theia and the girls were here to comfort me. I wish I did not have to be so many things to so many people. It has been days since I laughed -- not the nervous kind, but the genuine, joy filling every inch of me kind of laugh. Sometimes, when I do, I wonder if it’ll be my last._

_I’m tired. Odessa will be here soon. Enough for one night._

_OBS_

\--

“40 on that end makes 360 total!” Olivia called out from behind a massive pile of sheathed swords stacked like firewood, a tarp draped over them. On the other side and across the room, beside a work table, Cassandra was writing down inventory numbers. The Smiths were hard at work hammering behind her, on direct orders from Harritt and Dagna to produce as much raw blade metal as possible to replenish the stock before the march on Adamant.

“Good, thank you,” Cassandra called back, eyes squinting a bit as she scanned the lines of math and scribbled writing. “Ugh, Maker,” she remarked at the sloppiness.

“Look, if you are going to complain about my handwriting, at least say it to me and not whatever man is up in the--geAH!” Olivia struggled to argue as she climbed over the tarped wall of swords, slipping and sliding a bit and leaning onto her hands. She was just high enough for Cassandra’s look of impatient concern to lock on her.

Olivia giggled nervously, grimacing and frozen in place. A strand of hair fell into the middle of her face, flowing with the air released from her nose.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra sighed as she wrote more numbers, “must you endanger yourself so unwisely before a major battle?”

Olivia was never one for failure, though. Pulling herself up and over the top of the pile that was easily 10 feet high and even longer in width, she swung her legs around and slid down the tarp and onto her feet. Bouncing up, tall with triumph, she placed her hands on her hips and smiled.

“Aha! Endangering? Where?” she asked.

Though, just as she thought she was in the clear, the pile she had just conquered began to clank as several swords from underneath the hide tarp began to slide and fall down behind her. Gasping, she immediately leaned back, arms out wide as she provided her own body for a blockade against the avalanche. The weight of a dozen or so longswords bore down on her shoulders and back, and she hunched a bit.

“Blasted! Ugh…!” she groaned, pushing back slowly but surely against them. Slow and slight at first, but harnessing the strength in her knees and core, she proved resilient.

All the while, Cassandra watched out the corner of her eye, doing her best to maintain her focus and not encourage her own humorous pleasure in watching the Inquisitor fail to evade her clumsiness. Once, such an accident would compel her to rush and fish the Inquisitor out of whatever trouble she had gotten herself into; sometimes, it still worked. But, ever so often it fell on the Herald to rescue herself from her own sticky situations. She even had to bite back a smirk as she did her best to do math in her head rather than gawk at her carelessness. 

Eventually, though, Olivia salvaged her little triumph from the brink, shoving back one final time against the stacked blades until they managed to stay put rather than engulf her. Sighing heavily and dusting off her hands, the Inquisitor took one last resentful glance at the pile behind her before walking over to the work table where the Seeker sat diligently at work. Around her were various large pieces of paper, reports and filings, numbers and recommendations. This was all to help the Commander’s office amidst the mountains of work and preparation necessary for the voyage ahead.

Olivia scanned the scene, noting the fresh ink intermingling with the old and faded on the parchment. Cassandra had been fast at work in the morning before Olivia had shown up, and based on her knack for single-minded tasks she would be after she left.

“So, is that the last number you needed?” she asked, folding her arms.

“For the time being, yes.”

“Ah, excellent,” Olivia replied, walking around the perimeter of the table and taking a seat beside her on the attached bench. For a moment she simply sat there, hands on her lap and shoulders bunched as if she were about to listen to a Bard’s tale or something entertaining like that. Cassandra stopped her writing and eyed her through her periphery.

“Is there...a matter on your mind?” she asked, a touch defensive.

“Not at all. You know, besides the impending siege and all that. Dirty business, war is. You know, now that I think of it, 360 swords is not a lot. This cannot be all that we have in the inventory. If anything, this is but a percentage, and really, that is a marvel that we ha--”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra said as she adjusted her hold on her quill, leaning upright in her posture. “You are babbling again.”

“...Babbling? I do not babble!” Olivia said with an anxious laugh under her breath.

They stared at each other for a moment, a stand-off of wills that Olivia was primed to lose. Rolling her lip a bit, she conceded.

“I am merely facilitating conversation,” she corrected, glancing absentmindedly down towards the table.

Cassandra huffed, leaning back over her work with her forearm resting across the table. “You only babble for two reasons: when you are angry, and when you have just done something you think will upset me.”

“Where is your evidence for such claims, Seeker? I am feeling most attacked for this court of opinion you seem to have constructed in our friendship.”

“Inquisitor.”

Another pause filled the air as Olivia bit back a tense smile. Cassandra busied herself again with writing. Without her direct gaze, Olivia allowed her chest to inhale air again, and she looked for everything and anything that could carry the conversation away from the awkward island she had shipwrecked on.

“These numbers are off,” she remarked, pulling a sheet out from under a few others and reading it in her hands. “We do not have that much iron or summerstone in our reserves. We will have to outsource.”

Cassandra looked up, a discerning brow raised as she looked at the numbers from the side. “Very well,” she concluded, dipping the quill in her small jar of ink and handing it off to the Inquisitor.

Olivia grinned as she took it, setting down the paper on the table and scratching out the original numbers. Her tongue stuck out from her pursed lips, a habit when doing calculations in her mind’s eye from childhood that she never truly grew out of. A smirk could be heard from Cassandra’s direction as she wrote the proper estimations in the columns.

“What, Seeker?” she said, her attention still on the task at hand.

“Nothing. Are you finished?”

Olivia scratched one last word, tilting her head towards her with a sassy, offended expression. “No, I have all the hours in the day with this quill in my hand, no?”

Cassandra shook her head, a slight upturn in the corner of her mouth as she snatched the quill back for herself. The Inquisitor did not fight back, but she did suppress an amused giggle in her throat, watching the Seeker refocus her attention on her own bureaucratic duties.

“Come now, you’ve been at this all morning, take a break,” she suggested. Catching the small satchel she brought in with her out of the corner of her eye, Olivia grinned and dug a hand into it.

“I do not need a break, I need to complete this,” she heard Cassandra clarify. Her refusal was not enough to convince her, though, as she searched for the two objects she knew would convince: an apple and her harvesting knife. Finding the grip of the blade and then the slippery skin of the apple, she pulled them from her bag and held them out in front of her for all to see.

Cassandra groaned, side-eyeing her a bit. “Why do you always distract using some sort of fruit?”

“It is friendlier than most tactics you use. Or should I be more endeared every time you get a punch on me in the side with your shield in practice?”

“You should, considering it happens so often.”

“Pfft, shove it.”

Cassandra chuckled under her breath, finally allowing some of that lighthearted jest to slip in underneath her shell of professionalism. Olivia began cutting into the apple with her knife: first, she split it in half, and then into quarters, the sticky juice slipping from the tips of her fingers down into her palm. After putting one of them between her mouth, she held one out for Cassandra to take, an offer the Seeker conservatively obliged as she put her writing utensil down.

Olivia smirked at her success, sliding the knife on either side across her thigh to clean it of the juice.

“Odessa stole them from the kitchen this morning, apparently they’re fresh from the orchard down the hill,” she explained as she chewed, setting the knife and spare slices on the table. “I am surprised they are still producing so late in the season.”

Cassandra ate quietly and lowered at an angle slightly away from Olivia as she did so. One might suggest this was to continue reading over the reports, if they did not know any better. But, to the Inquisitor, it was a curious gesture from a friend who was anything but indirect and shy.

“Does this...does she steal things often?” the Seeker asked at last, swallowing her first mouthful. Her tone was dry, a bit reluctant.

Olivia smirked, tilting her head a bit. “What do you mean? Everyone steals from the kitchens. I suppose that is an odd word to phrase it with.”

“Not entirely, if one understands the difference between stealing and taking with permission.”

Olivia froze, sucking on the chewed up bite on the side of her mouth as she lowered her portion onto her lap. “Cassandra.”

“What?” she replied curtly, taking another bite as she gazed back at her.

“Is there something on your mind? You are damn-near hiding from me where you were just admonishing me for my haphazard exercise.”

“You have such high regard for my pleasant company, I should think it matters little,” Cassandra scoffed, finishing her last bite, though her jaw remained clenched.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “Is this about Odessa, then?”

“No, it is not. I do not have the time to have any concerns over Odessa, or any of the women or men you take to your own bed.”

Olivia tilted her chin. This conversation was unexpected, but nevertheless fueled by the curious thoughts she had flurrying in her mind all day and night. What better time to indict a friend on peculiar behavior than surrounded by freshly-forged weapons ready for testing?

“Then was there some other reason you stuck around the library the other day with the Mages? To have friendly downtime with the people you are so fond of?”

Cassandra turned her head sharply to stare back at her, her face a mixture of confusion and insult. Damn Mages and their interconnected gossip channels.

“Is that how she explained it? I was trying to help someone. Nothing more,” she replied curtly, anger appearing in her tone.

“Cassandra, I know you,” Olivia hissed back, taking another quarter of apple and splitting it in two, holding one of them to her lips. “You don’t meander around looking for ways to be helping hands to the people you once policed. You said it yourself.”

Cassandra lowered her chin, her brow furrowing more. She let a moment of silence fill and furnish the tension between them that was ever-rising, before replying.

“Perhaps I did not used to. But, then my superior and ally asked me to promise her that I would ensure the safety and wellbeing of the people she called “hers” should she not be there to do it herself. I suppose my habit for keeping my word is harder to break than I thought.”

Olivia’s stern expression softened, and her chewing slowed almost to a dead stop as she looked down at her lap. In her hands were the remaining bit of fruit and dagger in an underhanded grip. All at once her pride became both more and less aggravated, realizing she had fallen into a pitfall of her own making.

“Are you finished, then?” Cassandra added, “Or are you unsatiated in your paranoia?”

“You still grew cold when I mentioned Odessa. That, I did not misunderstand,” she replied, tossing the knife back on the table, fingers pressing into the apple for the sake of her temper.

“How am I to behave? She is nothing to me, I do not know her or where she comes from. That is of course besides the fact that she lied about her whereabouts and knowing you from Ostwick.”

“She did not lie.”

“...Are you seriously considering neglecting to tell the truth as a different matter than lying, Inquisitor? Are you that eager to clear her of any possible danger she poses to you and the Inquisition?”

“Odessa is harmless.”

“So is a snake, until its blood grows warm enough from basking in the sun.”

Olivia huffed through her nose, rolling her eyes as she bent a knee up against her chest. She wrapped her arms around her shin, and rested her jaw on her knee. “You think she is a snake, now? I thought she meant nothing to you?”

“I think anyone who wishes so eagerly to get into bed with the Inquisitor of all people is cause for concern and vigilance. But, you have never heeded my caution on such fronts. I do not see a reason to start now, given your clear desire to defend her and her motivations.”

Cassandra took the quill back in her hand and dabbed it in the ink, adjusting the spread of papers in front of her. Olivia watched her and frowned, unsatisfied with the delegation of the conversation.

“You would not be so cold if I told you I loved her.”

There was a shift in the air. The quill scratched to a halt, sending a shiver up Olivia’s sides. The Seeker remained frozen, glaring down at her paper. Olivia had hit a nerve, though what it consisted of or where it came from was still uncertain. But, it quelled her ego, and that was the need she was sufficing in the moment, rather than fairness.

“Whether or not you love her is irrelevant, Inquisitor, and is none of my concern,” Cassandra responded rigidly, leaning upright slightly with shoulders shifted back. 

“Bullshit,” Olivia replied coolly, “if I waltzed in here saying my long lost paramour had found me, and I was hopelessly devoted to her come what may, you would not be so disdainful towards it or her. But since it is casual and aimless, you think it a liability, as if love and romance cannot shroud betrayal and duplicity just as, if not more than casual lust.”

Cassandra sighed long through her nose, her temples pulsating. They looked as if they were covertly chewing back down all the things she wished to say that perhaps sat on her tongue. _I would not be so sure about my amiability if that were to occur_. Instead of talking back, though, she kept writing. Her dismissal only provoking Olivia to be more provocative.

“You’re quiet because you know I’m right,” the Inquisitor remarked, lowering her leg off the bench and shifting around to face the table. Taking one paper report in each hand, she continued to evaluate for possible mistakes and missing numbers, waiting for Cassandra to bite back.

“Your provocation is not going to work on me, if that is what you are waiting for,” Cassandra at last spoke, writing and reading while she stewed. “I am capable of maintaining my patience even when someone deliberately treads it.”

“Hm,” Olivia hummed.

A half minute passed, both women keeping to themselves and not bothering to instigate more arguing. The atmosphere said it all when their mouths refrained. That, and the sounds of a hard-pressed quill writing, and hands filing through and flipping pages methodically. The heat of the Smith’s fire felt ever-imposing on Olivia’s neck and back as the truth of the matter stayed ambiguous. That is, until she received a single solemn question from her ally and friend, one she did not expect to come after so much temperamental flaring.

“...Do you not love her, then?” Cassandra asked low, a fleeting softness in her tone foiled by her stubbornness for debate.

Olivia looked up slightly, eyes a tad blurred from reading so much densely-packed script. She opened her mouth to say something immediately and clever, but she paused as she looked at Cassandra’s side profile. The way she did not look or break away from her work, but nevertheless listened, waiting for an answer.

“I...I do not.”

“Then why is it you spend so much time with her, if you know it is not to last?”

“Because why not? She knows the extent of my affection and has consented to as much. I do not see why it is a matter of moral regard.”

Cassandra’s brow creased a bit, and she reached for more ink. The spectrum of feeling relief, disagreement, and confusion drowning her mind like the quill tip submerged in the jar of black liquid.

Olivia swallowed her spit a bit stiffly, tapping the stack of papers she had bunched between her hands on the table to straighten them out. Setting them off to the side, she reached for new ones to peruse and critique, unsettled by the way the air felt between them now even if she was unapologetic in her answer.

“And why is love and romance so terrible, besides composing the fiction and novels you apparently disdain so much?” Cassandra pressed, switching to the back of the page she was on and continuing.

Olivia felt her throat tighten, slightly congested from the acidic juices of the apple she had just eaten. She took a silent breath as she read.

“Because romantic love is a farce to me. It always has, and always will.”

“How can you honestly believe that?”

Olivia stopped and looked back at her and their gazes promptly met. Their eyes connected, Olivia’s filled with defensive stubbornness and Cassandra’s of a candid sort of concern.

“I thought you of all people would understand a reluctance for something so frilly and artificial,” Olivia admitted, thumb pressing against the paper corner edge.

“Clearly not,” Cassandra replied, fiddling lightly with the quill. “Romance and love are about so much more than fickle emotions and lust. They are about sacrifice, selflessness, loyalty…”

“And jealousy, hostility, possessiveness, and obsession. Values and virtues taught so that we may become masters of hurting others before they have the chance to hurt us.”

Cassandra’s brow lifted slightly, her shoulders leaning away from Olivia. She had watched the way Olivia’s eyes grew cold and dormant, as if falling into a shadowy place her innermost self neglected to go to.

“I see,” she merely replied. “Well, forgive me for disagreeing.”

“You...You think me cynical and heartless now?” Olivia asked solemnly, squaring herself back up with her paperwork and reading.

“I think you grossly misinformed, at the very least.”

“Well, forgive _me_ for disagreeing, then.”

“I will not.”

Olivia looked up at once, caught off guard by the curt and defiant response she had been given. As she did, Cassandra put her quill down and began organizing the pages she had been dictating onto, one-by-one in order on one uniform pile.

“Having an informed opinion requires experience, Inquisitor. Experience I am convinced you do not have. Whatever it is that has become the subject of your malice, it is not love, nor is it even romance. It is idleness disguised as virtue, and the Maker does not intend such duplicities for us.”

Olivia huffed. “Are you just scared that you and I are speaking of the same thing, and your beloved construct of romance is not all it is lauded to be?”

Cassandra slowed her motions, glancing her way with a stern, even icey look. Olivia met her intensity with her own, though she could feel the cracking sensation in her chest that was most probably her pride.

“You cannot accept affection from unqualified hands and call it love, just as you cannot accept holy words from corrupted mouths and call it good faith.”

“And what if you are prevented and insulted for trying to find this pure kind of love by simply being who you are? Odessa and I did not come to our closeness by being in a the safe and accepting environment we dwelled within. Why am I the misguided one when I simply had the courage to accept that the only way love would ever appear in my life was oppressed and damaged? What was I to do, wait for my Chevalier soulmate to come scale the tower walls just so your kind could shoot them down for breaking the rules of your ‘good faith’?”

Cassandra rolled one of her hands into a fist, thumb rubbing the side of her index finger. “My kind? You sound like the woman you were back at Haven, bearing your teeth for another tireless argument conjured out of your unrest about the past, rather than the possibility of the present.”

“Is that so bad? Are your views on the world and its ingredients so black and white, that you cannot question for a moment that there may be shortcomings to the virtues and convictions you nourish?”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, her voice rising in tandem with Olivia’s, until they were almost teetering on the line of yelling. “Your criticisms come from a place of vengeance and not clarity of mind, Inquisitor. If you have experienced nothing but hardship, how can you say you know what such things are in their most righteous and benevolent forms?”

“Who can say they have the proper ‘clarity of mind’ to speak on these things? They still impact us regardless of how undisciplined we are. You think your religious clerics and leaders have the right, more than a former Harlot who had to learn to depend on terrible men’s insecurities in love in order to survive?”

“Perhaps the issue is not love and romance, then, but your inability to execute either properly. One cannot hope to receive what they are unwilling and unable to give!”

Olivia stopped, her chest fluxing with restless, uneven breathing. All at once the verbal bruising gave way to flames of unadulterated wrath, seething and low.

“Maybe I am still the woman I was at Haven, and you are surprised to find she is not so insufferable after all,” Olivia spat back, boot stomping on the ground as she rose to her feet. She leaned over the table, collecting her several piles of completed and proofread pages, looking for a way out of both the conversation and the room.

Cassandra watched her, still filing and sorting, but as she came to the end of it she found herself with nothing to focus her attention on besides the argument in front of her.

“Inquisitor,” she intervened, rising to her feet as well. “You prodded for my opinion and you got it. I can offer nothing more than honesty.”

“I understand honesty well enough, Cassandra,” Olivia said as she grabbed her satchel, shoving her knife in it and closing the lid. She angrily tossed the strap over her head and onto her opposite shoulder, settling the bag at her side before grabbing the papers. “These are to go to the Commander’s office at once, no?”

“Yes...Inquisitor...” Cassandra came around the end of the table to stand facing her head on. She acted as if she wished to say something, something to de-escalate, but nothing came. Once more, Olivia was too busy conducting herself like a whirlwind, preparing to carry herself out of the room perhaps never to return, or something dramatic and mysterious along those lines.

“Nevermind, Seeker,” Olivia sighed, holding the papers to her chest with one arm, her other hand on her satchel bag. “I know when I am simply being a pest.”

“Do not be ridicul--”

“What, ridiculous? I thought that is what I am good at?” Olivia frowned, brushing her hair out of her face. Glaring back at at her one last time, she took a breath and made a break for it, stomping boots on the ground as she brushed past Cassandra’s shoulder. The Seeker did not follow after her, in either her posture or her gaze. She was doing what she did best, and Cassandra was all-too-familiar with it: causing smoke, and then leaving before the fire could consume everything. Without another word, she was through the door, slamming it resolutely behind her and leaving the Seeker to do her own counting.

\--

It was quite the obscure message to receive at the Ambassador’s office, a servant rushing in quietly but determined to pass it on with the utmost discretion. However, Josephine was never one to back down from an inquiry, so when she followed the woman across the Hall from her office, all the way down the flight of stairs into the kitchens, she found her curiosity justly rewarded. For, sitting on a stool pulled up to the long center table with a shepherd’s pie in front of her, about a quarter of it eaten by her already, Olivia struggled to keep her crying from developing into open sobbing.

“My Lady Inquisitor,” Josephine said, rushing over and standing directly across from her, “what in the world has happened?!”

Olivia’s eyes, welled we tears and swollen red, glanced up at the radiant and put-together Ambassador only to have more self-pity surge in her gut. Swallowing a bulky mouthful of mashed potatoes and peas, she sniffled and sat up.

“I...I h-had a r-rough morning,” she said in a brittle tone, looking down and stabbing the pie with her fork.

Josephine remained still and calm, hands out at her sides, thumbs touching the tips of her index fingers.

“I...I see that,” she replied carefully. “May I join you, then?”

Olivia sucked on her teeth, sitting up and rolling her shoulders back. She waved a hand as if to say yes, please, across the table. Josephine grinned politely, primping her Ambassador’s robes and swaying around the bench seat, sitting down with meticulous grace. Sitting tall and with hands on her lap, she gazed back at the Inquisitor, watching with coy dismay as she forked another hefty forkful of pie into her mouth.

“Are you...positively certain that is all that is troubling you, my Lady?” Josephine coaxed, scanning the room around them as men and women worked, cooked, and cleaned trying not to pay too much attention to the distressed Herald looking like a basketcase.

“Oh, you know, just the usual riff-raff,” Olivia said, words muffled by the food in her mouth. Her brusque manners made Josephine flinch a bit, halfway expecting food to spit out across the table at her.

“And that is…?”

“I’m incapable of love, my allies think I have horrible taste in women, men, everyone. Perhaps even horses! We all know my mare is a bitter son-of-a-Bitch, just like her rider. I am just a walking headache of behaviors and opinions all the time, day and night, without fail. I used to just like good sex, you know, without the attachment, without the words and the fluffy pillows and the spooning. Now?! Now, I get bitter, and angry, and sad, even when just...just moments earlier I was in the grips of unprecedented ecstasy! Now, I can’t even get a good roll in the sheets without wondering if I am gambling with the fate of nations and alliances and treaties and...and...ugh, sod it!”

Olivia started crying again, tossing her utensil into the pie tin and placing her face in her hands. The sound of her cooing and hissing made the surrounding staff turn their heads, but only momentarily for her sake. When one person tried to stare, he was promptly slapped upside the head by one of the older women and put back to work slicing vegetables.

Josephine’s face was red with blush from Olivia’s candid speech, though the Inquisitor hardly noticed nor cared. There were no more ways to dance around the crass but sincere nature of her crisis. She wasn’t a woman that feigned coy attitudes or tastes, and her Advisors understood as much by this point in their time together. Sex was sex, problems were problems, and crying was...well, crying.

“Well, I...that is...hm,” Josephine said, reaching into her satin vest and pulling a single cloth handkerchief, a deep purple in color. She held it out to her, hoping some form of stability could be reclaimed of the moment.

Olivia peeked out through her fingers, hushing up as she stared at the cloth token. She wiped the side of her face with her shirtsleeve first before taking it from her, pressing the whole of her face into it.

“Ugh,” she said, muffled through the fabric, “I just want a fade rift to swallow me whole.”

“That would be most unpleasant and unfortunate, Inquisitor. Perhaps there are other solutions to your concerns besides tempting powers beyond our realm of control.”

Olivia smirked humorlessly, rubbing her face dry for the time being, her eyes still glimmering with potential downpour of tears should she be tipped over the edge again. “I suppose you are right. I could always just jump off a waterfall in the Hinterlands.”

“Inquisitor, please.” Josephine said more sternly, brow raised. She leaned in more then, her elbows resting on the table as she took a more direct approach to her comforting. Olivia’s labored, congested breathing quieted some more as her eyes flickered between the Ambassador’s assured face and the massacred pie in front of her.

“Is this the distress of a leader? Of someone who is supposed to be a warrior, a Mage ready to lay siege on a Grey Warden fortress?” Olivia muttered.

Josephine gave her a moment to further collect herself, watching her and trying to find the proper answer as she always did.

“Inquisitor, you have always seen through the tasks which have been entrusted to you. Even if you have not always sought the most orthodox methods, you have yet to falter. Maybe it would be more favorable to grant yourself some patience during these...unique, dilemmas which have arisen in your life.”

Listening to her, Olivia could not help but grin crookedly, even if it did make her look a tad more pathetic.

“What if she’s right, Josephine?”

“What if who is right, my Lady?”

“Sh--that...p-person, that prickly, well-armored, endlessly sneering woman I have the unfortunate honor of calling an ally while she pesters and provokes my conscience like a siren of insufferable sobriety.”

“Ah, Seeker Pentaghast.”

“Yes, her. That one.”

Josephine smiled softly. “The Seeker can be most forward in her rhetoric. However, she speaks from a place of genuine devotion to this cause without fail. If she has offended you, I can imagine it was not her intention to do so.”

“You haven’t known our dynamics out in the field,” Olivia said as she rubbed her face, fingers combing into her head of loose hair. “There are times when I think a punch in the face would be more appealing than listening to her criticisms.”

“Well...that savory business of self-defense aside, Inquisitor, if she has somehow insinuated that you are incapable or undeserving of friendly affection or devotion, she is mistaken. I am sure that with time, she will see it as well. Until then you must steady yourself for the challenges that are approaching, and know that you will not face them alone.” Josephine’s kindness, the way it glowed from her skin inch for inch along with her intellectual might, was enough to embolden an entire Great Hall of jaded souls. It was hard to maintain indulgent self-pity in the face of her proactive personality.

“...Thank you, Josephine,” Olivia admitted, sighing and blowing her nose into the handkerchief, making a quaint squeaking sound like a small animal. It made a couple eavesdropping bystanders smirk and snicker, and while the Ambassador noticed, she hoped the Inquisitor would not for the sake of what dignity of hers might yet linger.

“It is no problem at all, Inquisitor. Now, if I may kindly suggest, may we send for a plate and proper utensils for your meal? And then, perhaps we can entertain the idea of your bathing?”


	44. The Stains That Linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition marches on toward Adamant. A stop in the Montsimmard region at a friendly ally's summer Manor gives an opportunity for rest. Olivia enjoys some time with some of her inner circle, precious time with what lays ahead. But, just as she believes the night to be moving on with itself, she finds herself confronted by Cassandra, and certain inconvenient truths come to light.

_Cassandra,_

_I know we discussed this at length already, but I felt it only good measure to send along a note. You have always been a different person in correspondence than in person -- for one, you cannot dismiss me as easily when I get my say all on paper up front._

_Josephine gave me the side she heard from the Inquisitor about the disagreement. It sounds -- as always -- like the Inquisitor cares a great deal for you opinion on her as a leader. Take care with such weight in the coming days, especially with Adamant. This will be her first large military campaign, and in all fairness, she is the woman for which it is all for. It will weigh on her._

_I also know that you and I have and continue to disagree on this front, but I wish to reiterate to you: you overthink what it means to love and be loved by a woman._

_I can already sense the callous face you’ll have in reading this. I will end my lobbying here. Take care with the events and emotions that await you on this mission._

_Maker keep you. ___

__\--_ _

__Just past the midway point of the journey’s distance, it was another night stop for the Inquisitor’s contingent. The Ambassador had managed to arrange for comfortable lodgings throughout their time on the road, but this time was particularly cushioned even for their standards: a summer Manor in northern Montsimmard, unoccupied by the family who owned it while they stayed in the Capitol for the winter. The place was rural enough for a substantial portion of the troops to stay and find dry, ample land for camp._ _

__For most of the evening Olivia was running around like a chicken with her head cut off, ensuring that the differentiation in lodging -- Manor bedrooms versus camping outside -- was not a matter of prejudice or her troops being lesser than. Everyone was invited inside for supper, and to enjoy the place as long as they chose to before retiring to their tents. Those who were sick or injured were allotted cots in any spare room big enough. Olivia and Sera seemed to be a two-woman outsourcing committee, taking in orders and disbursing bowls and plates of food throughout the halls and gardens of people finally getting an evening of rest._ _

__Besides the rogue elf, not many other of the allies got much prolonged interaction with the Inquisitor that evening. That is, until the later hours, when supper had given way to light drinking and storytelling around fires both in pits and hearths within the Manor._ _

__Feet sore and barefoot in comparison to her lightly armored body, Olivia at last wandered down to the kitchens, scarf tied in her hair and soup stains on her slacks. The roundabout staircase leading into the lower level kitchens and servants’ quarters were like how home was: the servants underground as much as possible, away from the eyes and ears of the sensitive nobility. Orlesian Manors were predictable despite their owners’ dedication to mystique in all its forms._ _

__There was a gathering around the long tables in the kitchen of familiar faces: Bull, Varric, and Dorian sitting around the cleared off table nearest to the fire, pint cups in hand. Against the far wall was Sera, sitting on a floor cabinet and tinkering with her bow, pelts and skins draped behind her from the harvest season hunt probably. In the far corner to the left of her and the men was Cassandra, standing tall and reading papers underneath the archway to the servant’s beds. Olivia’s pulse quickened a bit seeing her there, the woman she had taken care to avoid and treat with orderly stoicism the entire voyage thus far. Her anxiety was interrupted by a hoarse, thundering voice._ _

__“Boss! You’re finally getting with the program,” Bull said, leaning over his shoulder. “Come get a drink.”_ _

__Olivia paused for a moment, a caught a bit off-guard amidst her fatigue and nerves. But, Bull could always get her to chuckle, and as she did she meandered over and stood behind him and Dorian facing Varric on the opposite side._ _

__“I’m afraid I’m not one for drinking tonight,” she replied sweetly, “but I would love some company.”_ _

__Varric looked upon her, a fiendish grin on his lips. “All the best heroes have two lovers depending on the night: sobriety and inebriation. In my experience, inebriation is the most fun, though sobriety is the most faithful.”_ _

__Dorian snorted, taking a light swig of his beverage. “How original, faith and fun being diametrically opposed. And the Chantry wonders why no one goes to its Birthday parties.”_ _

__Olivia laughed, coming around the side and grabbing a tousled rag hanging from the supportive beam. As she rubbed her hands with it the ache in her neck and shoulders became more pronounced, and she rolled her head back and forth._ _

__“In my experience, faith and fun tend to be co-conspirators.”_ _

__“Oh? And what, pray tell, is the end game?” Varric smiled, tilting his head as all the three turned their attention to the Inquisitor._ _

__Olivia cocked a brow, her lips parting and showing her tongue pressing between her teeth. Instinctively she glanced over at the doorway where Cassandra had been standing, and unsurprisingly, the Seeker moved away and further into the sleeping quarters. Typical, Olivia thought to herself as she returned her gaze to her more entertaining allies._ _

__“The end game, Varric, isn’t the goal. All the men and women I encountered on my travels wanted one thing: the pleasure of exalted mediocrity. Brothels and taverns were their Temple just as much as any Chantry could have been.”_ _

__Bull leaned back, chest up and chin out as he held his goblet out in the air. “Hah, figures. This is what happens when prayer is seen as healthy and gratification, a pitfall.”_ _

__“Yes, you are quite right Bull. Though, and this is simply my observations of the banal tastes of you Southerners, rarely is a taste for sin a desire to be murdered,” Dorian mused, planting his elbow on the table._ _

__“Hey, Tevinter,” Varric said cautiously, “for someone who never stops talking, you sure know how to pick the words you fill the silence with.”_ _

__Olivia smirked, tossing the rag onto the table and putting her hands on her hips. “Varric, it’s alright. Dorian is just demonstrating his friendly devotion to me and my conscience. He hugged me once and now must atone for the odor of Orlesian muskrat on his fine velveteen.”_ _

__“See? she gets--oh, you scoundrel,” Dorian huffed, taking another swig. ._ _

__“I don’t think anyone doubts whether or Boss gets it, Dorian,” Bull said in jest. The three of them each stifled their own laugher and snickering, Varric and Dorian lowering their chins a bit as the euphemism hung in the air._ _

__Olivia gasped playfully, folding her arms and propping herself up on the edge of the table with her hip._ _

__“Does anyone talk about anything else besides my sex life around here? Like, perhaps my kindness, my loyalty, or my exquisite personal style?”_ _

__Silence. Varric glanced at Bull, who in turn looked at Dorian, the one person who seemed undaunted and unashamed for his response._ _

__“The thing is, Inquisitor: yes and no.”_ _

__“Oh, wonderful,” Olivia said as she rolled her eyes, “glad to know you trust the in-house hussy to lead you against a corrupted Magister and perhaps his archdemon lap dragon.”_ _

__“We never said we saw it as a shortcoming,” Varric admitted, shrugging a bit. “To be fair, I have seen my share of sexual escapades in tandem with heroism. I’ve been jaded.”_ _

__“Fine enough. I am intrigued as to what the memoirs will say about me, then.”_ _

__Bull grumbled, setting down his empty cup and placing his hand on his thigh. “Boss, to me, small-talk is small-talk. A mercenary company has three main topics of small-talk: sex, women, and fighting. You got a combination of more than one? All the better. You got the total package, why not just work the angle a bit?”_ _

__Dorian rolled his shoulder a bit. “As bad as it looks, I would rather talk about paint on roof shingles drying than the affairs of your...affairs,” Dorian joined in, folding his arms. “Your reputation is like a latrine puddle. People lie about how often they step in it, and no one wants to know what its true ingredients are.”_ _

__Bull laughed haughtily, slapping the table and sending the other two scrambling for their drink cups as they danced and spun from the momentum. Dorian looked smug, eyes on Olivia as she sucked on her teeth to prevent her own smile from showing._ _

__“Very well, Dorian,” she conceded, dismounting from the table and walking towards the wall where Sera was perched and watching out the corner of her eye. “Should I be swallowed by demons and monsters in this upcoming siege, I leave the correct interpretation of my behavior to you.” Waving gently at them, it was all smiles and sincerity lacing the sarcasm. Just the way Olivia liked it with her allies and friends: staying on her toes. Their incessant sport made Sera’s company seem docile and accommodating in comparison._ _

__“Aye, what are they yammering on about over there?” Sera asked as the Inquisitor came closer, bow string material twisted around her fingers._ _

__“Oh, you know, fun at my expense.”_ _

__“Need me to set ‘em right?”_ _

__Olivia giggled, turning around and resting against the wall beside her, her eyes on the men. “No, let them play. It’s good for the spirits.”_ _

__“Spirits? Maker’s tits, don’t talk like that, I’m already bitter at you for dragging me along on this Warden mess.”_ _

__“Just add it to my tab, Sera.”_ _

__Sera glared her way, but the twinkle in her eye let onto the truth of her anger. It was playful resentment towards a friend, and Olivia appreciated it more nowadays._ _

__“Thank you for helping this evening. And for limiting the target practice on the Hall portraits.”_ _

__“The night’s still young,” Sera said, biting her lip as she fastened something on her bow. “I gotta wring out this new string somehow before we get there.”_ _

__“Keep it to the east wing, then.”_ _

__“Deal. Is that....is that the left or right?”_ _

__“The one with the annoying dog portrait that looks like a man with a flea-bitten wig?”_ _

__“Right, got it.” Sera smiled with a touch of mischief, tossing her bow up in the air and catching it in her hand. “You got any more fun tonight?”_ _

__Olivia grinned, taking in the room one more time even though little had changed. Something was provoking vigilance in her every which way, and it had been that way since they had gotten on the road. It was as if she were wading through tall grass, the way her body reacted in goosebumps at the slight change in wind chill or the sensation of a dark hallway at her back. Something was on the winds, and it wasn’t a mystery. Though, it remained to be seen just how much it would get under Olivia’s skin before the actual moment of truth at Adamant._ _

__“I think I’m going to find somewhere secluded to sleep. Perhaps in the west wing, to keep out of your way with those arrows of yours. I’ll take one last walk around the gardens and courtyard to ensure everyone is well.”_ _

__“Sounds good.”_ _

__Olivia gazed back at her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Take care and rest up, Sera.”_ _

__Sera froze, a bit unnerved by the sudden placement of affection onto her. Her cheeks turned a bit pink, and her eyes shifted from the Inquisitor to the floor._ _

__“Yeah, well, shove it with the feelings, fancy-pants,” She replied curtly, but with the utmost friendly intent._ _

__\--_ _

__Several hours passed. The Manor and surrounding land quieted down substantially as people either went to bed or settled in night watch. Torches surrounding and within the building were left half-lit so people unfamiliar with Orlesian flare for hallways and corridors could better navigate. Olivia had found a small corner room in the west wing as she promised, and though sleep was her desire, habits of self-induced insomnia died hard; they were especially lively when a major siege was approaching. Desperate times called for desperate measures._ _

__Or, rather, pesky coping mechanisms called for even peskier coping mechanisms. Sneaking down to the kitchens and back was a sordid ordeal, but being dressed in resting clothes and a blanket as a shawl was almost like a disguise. No one would think of seeing their leader out in the open looking like the stylistic equivalent of a winter sock. As she made her way back from her mission, bowl of cherries in her hands as if she were a priestess carrying a pan of incense to an altar, she did her best to bob and weave throughout the halls lined with people on sleeping bags and cots. She figured she could cut her way through the balcony hall, and back through the window into her chosen bedroom._ _

__At last, she came to the opened double-doors to her right. They led to the outdoor, second-floor walkways. Diagonally across the view, she could see her window left open, curtain messily drawn and draped out of the way. Just two more corners to round and a straightaway and she would be home free. Tracing the bare balls of her feet across the moonlit marble she made a break for it. It was about 10-12 ft. before a voice echoed from over her left side._ _

__“You forgot to eat supper again, didn’t you?” That damn Nevarran accent._ _

__Olivia stalled mid-step. Her shoulders hunched upwards towards her ears, a grimace on her lips. It was like being ten years old again and caught stealing cookies from the kitchen maid._ _

__“I’m...I’m not speaking to you,” she spat back, keeping her attention on the patch ahead of her, the gaudy pattern on the floor._ _

__“What a fine way to inform me.”_ _

__There the Seeker was, sitting on the balcony railing up against the column, one boot resting on the rail with her knee bent upwards and the other leg towards the ground. Her arms were folded, and her braid for once was resting down her shoulder and not twisted up on her head. She was dressed in her dark breeches and a black, heavy buttoned coat, no metal or chainmail in sight like before in the kitchens. Olivia almost snorted at the picture of her looking like a gallant heroine stopping into someone’s mansion to cause trouble. Tilting her head back and over her shoulder, she gave a frown and raised brow._ _

__“Should I have it written in the sky, then?”_ _

__“You could, given the amount of smoke that billows out from your ears at the slightest inconvenience.”_ _

__Olivia glared, eyes inflamed and mouth tight as if it were sutured. It was the kind of expression that struck fear into the hearts of lesser men, women, and animals. The way her irises glowed in the dark, imbued by wrath. In a way she proved the Seeker’s playful comment right, her mind full of the fire that could if possible send smoke pluming out from her ears, nose, and throat. But, Cassandra had known this face before, and had been the subject of its appearance on many an occasion. Subsequently she had developed an immunity to its potency; one might say even an affinity for it._ _

__“I have nothing more to say to you. I must go to bed.”_ _

__Cassandra’s grin was still hanging on by a thread. Unimpressed by her ‘good sport’ attitude, Olivia held the bowl to her chest and turned back towards the path in front of her. A few more deliberate steps, and she found herself interrupted once more by the voice she seemingly lacked the capability of fully dismissing, both from her presence and from her mind._ _

__“Inquisitor, wait.”_ _

__Stopped in her tracks, Olivia lowered her chin towards her chest, her teeth gritting. Her halt was enough to give Cassandra the go ahead for whatever unwelcomed testimony she appeared to be harboring. How many times had they ended up in this shape: Olivia, fed up and seeking the way out, and Cassandra pulling some string thought nonexistent, pulling on her to reconsider her fear?_ _

__“...Are those Montsimmard cherries?”_ _

__Olivia instinctively clutched a few of them with her fingers, eyeing them in the bowl she had stolen from one of the cupboards._ _

__“You don’t know, do you?” Cassandra added, her chin skewing to the right._ _

__“I know well enough! They’re...they’re red ones.”_ _

__Cassandra grinned with new energy. “Your upbringing clearly impressed thorough taste.”  
__

__“And what would you know about taste?”_ _

__Cassandra lowered her leg off the rail. “If you would not mind sharing, I--”  
__

__“Sharing? With you? I think I’d rather spit the juice into my eye.” Olivia twisted her shoulders around to look at her, their eyes connecting through the space between the columns and shadows._ _

__Cassandra’s eyes narrowed as she scooted her hip up farther onto her perch. “If you are so content with your hostility, then fine. By all means, retire.”_ _

__Olivia paused, her foot tapping with ancy energy, slight at first but gradually more as she deliberated. Nothing was stopping her from strutting down the hall and climbing through her window, slamming it and locking it to keep the nonsense out. But Cassandra knew what she was doing, and Olivia could see it in her eyes: a bluff caller by trade and by temper. Olivia rolled her eyes at last, shoulders falling as she walked around the corner and towards the Seeker, who’s grin grew into a soft smile._ _

__“I loathe you,” she offered, setting the bowl down on the railing as a borderline between them._ _

__“You’ve said worse.”_ _

__“I know. And that was just the stuff I said out loud.”_ _

__Loosening the fit of her blanket shawl around her shoulders, Olivia swung a leg around the rail on the opposite end and pulled herself onto it. She sat squarely as if in the saddle, leaning back flat against a column of her own. She stared coldly at Cassandra, similarly to how she did the very first time they had ever met, except there were no shackles or dank prison cells to speak of._ _

__Cassandra leaned forward, taking a cherry from the bowl and plucking the stem off, tossing it over the rail. Though, instead of piecing it apart, she placed the entire fruit into her mouth: a choice that was mildly concerning. Olivia raised a brow, eyes slightly widened._ _

__“You know those have pits, right?”_ _

__Cassandra’s chest heaved a bit in what looked to be a muffled chuckle. Chewing her bite conservatively, she seemed to shift a mouthful of it onto one cheek. Olivia prepared herself for the obnoxious response of ‘of course I eat the pits, they are no match for me’ or something like that. But, then, a surprise: Cassandra, leaning sideways over the rail, her chin cocked forward. From there, she hocked the pit out through her ‘O’-shaped mouth, projecting it out several yards._ _

__Olivia flinched, shoulders bunched again as her eyes followed the trajectory. Her eyes fastened on the ground below where it must have landed, though she was too far up to see in the dark. All the while, Cassandra fell back against the marble again, grabbing another cherry and taking it with her, her face smug as ever._ _

__Olivia swallowed resentfully, jaw a bit clamped.. “You...you--”_ _

__“No one will believe you if you tell them, so perhaps you should not question it.”_ _

__“Believe what, that you partake in foolish behaviors?”_ _

__The two looked at each other again. Cassandra was chewing on another cherry, electing to do so instead of clarify Olivia’s question. Resigned to it, Olivia sighed and reached for a piece for herself. Her method was much messier: thumbs pressing down into the fruit and pulling it apart, revealing the pit stuck in the middle. Fishing it out with her fingers and tossing it back in the bowl, she placed the butchered halves into her mouth._ _

__“Are you incapable of not making a mess?” Cassandra asked, noticing the streams of blood-red cherry juice going down Olivia’s fingers._ _

__Olivia huffed and sucked the trail of sweetness on her fingers one by one, a soft kissing sound with each one._ _

__“I don’t take criticism from pit spitters.”_ _

__“You do not take criticism at all.”_ _

__“....No, but least of all from pit spitters. If a bird happens upon that pit and chokes on it trying to feed, it’s on your head, Pentaghast.”_ _

__“I’m sure it will not be the only matter I must reckon with one day, especially if you are there to provide the reminder.”_ _

__A light breeze settled into the open air of the balcony hall, carrying through the small tassels on the ends of Olivia’s blanket. For a minute or two it was simply this, each woman taking a turn grabbing a cherry for themselves. Cassandra did not deviate from her method, but instead of spitting, she grabbed it from her mouth and put it in the bowl. Similarly, rather than man-handle the fruit with her bare hands, Olivia bit off halves directly. For a while, the armistice was in full swing. On her fifth round of cherries, Cassandra tested the waters._ _

__“I have not eaten much of these since I was a child, sent to the Seeker’s fortress near here. A child will do most anything to pass the time and get a good laugh, even if it means something as simple as spitting cherry pits out the window to see how far it can fall.” Her tone was warmer, less sarcastic than before. Perhaps the sweetness had overwhelmed even her unending reserves of salt within her disposition._ _

__Olivia was sucking the juice from her current mouthful, lips puckered a bit. “You told me you were old for a new Seeker recruit. You were still a child?”_ _

__“I was twelve,” Cassandra replied, tossing another pit in the bowl. “Most are recruited younger.”_ _

__A couple of night birds flew overhead, tumbling around each other in a spiral. Their flurry caught Olivia’s attention as she looked up towards the night sky, taking in the stars and the crescent moon shape she could only see part of. Twelve years old is hardly young to a Mage -- the proper word would be “fraught.”_ _

__“How were you able to make such a choice?”_ _

__“My brother’s...his death ended a lot of possibilities for me. My Uncle would not do as I originally asked and send me to the Templars. He sent me to the Seekers, perhaps thinking it would be more beneficial for me.”_ _

__Olivia tilted her head. “Do you agree?”_ _

__Cassandra angled her head back against the column. “Of course I do. If it weren’t for my training, Maker only knows how much my anger and grief would have consumed me.”_ _

__The air stilled again as Olivia grabbed another cherry, a smaller one, bruised and misshapen. She played with it in between her fingers, resting the back of her hands against the rail._ _

__“It is hard to imagine you as a young teenager.”_ _

__“Just imagine someone even more prone to impulse and assumptions about people and matters beyond her understanding, with longer hair and less scars.”_ _

__The smart humor in Cassandra’s tone made Olivia grin, only there because she managed to bite back the smile she truly wished to give. Cassandra obviously noticed; folding her arms, she huffed air through her nose._ _

__“Regardless, I had the privilege of choices where others did not.”_ _

__“Yes, you did,” Olivia replied, holding the fruit to her mouth, “but then again, you and I have that in common.”_ _

__Cassandra’s brow furrowed, something that only made Olivia sigh and look away, chin tucked closer to her right shoulder as she peered down as the small courtyard beneath them. Biting down and noting the unexpected bitterness of it, her face contorted slightly. It paled in comparison, though, to the unsavory truth that rest in her throat._ _

__“My Father did not want to send me to the Circle. He would have sent me away to our smaller hunting cottage in the country sooner than see me encircled, to live out the rest of my days in the comfort I was born to. I wanted to be free of my expectations, even as dismal as they were after the truth of what I was came out.”_ _

__Cassandra sighed a bit. “So, you outed yourself.”_ _

__“In a way, yes. My family was naive, they thought nobility could buy you certain truths to use to paint over less ideal ones. Such is the way of the Orlesians.”_ _

__“I...cannot argue with that.”_ _

__Olivia grinned crookedly, looking down at the embellishing in the marble and gold enamel lining the carved rock. Such refined taste, such exorbitant expenses. Prices invisibilized people had to pay. Maker only knew who the land beneath the Manor they were taking shelter in belonged to before the Empire existed, or how many graves rested in the foundations. She pulled the shawl off, finding that the night was no longer cold enough to warrant an extra layer. She folded it over a few times between her forearms, her hands concealed by the layers of wool as she held it to her stomach._ _

__“Inquisitor...there is something I should say. What I wished to say at the beginning. I...I must ask your forgiveness for what I said back at Skyhold.”_ _

__Olivia’s eyes flickered with a new brightness as she looked back up towards her. She saw all at once, the candid shift of softness in Cassandra’s face. The disarmament, the sincerity. Cassandra was never one for false airs or facades, but there was a difference between when she was being her everyday blunt self, and being vulnerable. It was in her eyes, always in her eyes. Olivia had learned them._ _

__“Cassandra, I will only say this once, because I have thought about it a great deal. I was angry. I...am, angry. But it is not because you slandered me. It’s because what you said was right.”_ _

__Cassandra opened her mouth to speak, her voice cracking a bit in the back of her throat. “Inquisitor, that is not the truth. I knew what I was saying was hurtful. It was my anger, and not a reflection of your character that produced my words.”_ _

__“I may not be the brightest woman in the world, but I know enough about you to understand that you rarely say a word fewer or lesser than what is meant or needed. You are as measured as you are insightful.”_ _

__“You…” Cassandra hesitated, letting her arms fall out of their folded shape. Lowering her chin away from Olivia, she glanced down to her hands resting on the base of her thigh. “You flatter me.”_ _

__“Flattering is not the point,” Olivia corrected, her head rocking from side to side. “You are what you are, as I am what I am. I am someone who was never told or shown what love could be when in the hands of the benevolent and sincere. It was not until the Circle when I was rehabilitated in friendship, and even then I...I made countless mistakes. Mistakes which I still meditate on even after all this time. The best thing I can do for others who would seek unfettered love is turn them away from my direction.”_ _

__Cassandra’s face has turned more melancholic as Olivia spoke, which made it all-the-more disheartening when at the end of Olivia’s testimony she met her eyes with her own. Swallowing stiffly, the congestion of acidic fruit juices collecting in the back of her mouth. Her fingers rubbing against each other slowly, feeling the dried stickiness of them._ _

__“I think you have a very unforgiving appraisal of yourself, Inqui--”_ _

__“Please, please just...can you call me Olivia?”_ _

__“...I…”_ _

__“I miss it sometimes. My name, I mean. Everyone here calls me Inquisitor, Your Worship, Boss, affectionate epithets if you’re Sera. But...I miss my name. Indulge me.”_ _

__Cassandra looked a bit conflicted, blinking a few times as she pulled away from the column behind her. Such requests were discomforting after all the months of formal recognition of titles. Seeker, Inquisitor. Inquisitor, Seeker. But, Olivia also called her by her name, a luxury she had rarely ever demanded to be returned. Cassandra stood up onto her feet before sitting back squarely against the railing, hands gripping it on either side of her hips. Her shoulders were rounded a bit, but she still looked tall, confident in herself._ _

__“...Olivia.”_ _

__The sound of her name made Olivia’s hear surge faster in its pace, if only for a few seconds. It was amazing how one could become so estranged from the first word that was every associated with their individual existence._ _

__She smiled, tucking some hair behind her ear. “Cassandra. As you were saying?”_ _

__The Seeker’s lips closed, jaw tensed as her eyes went down to her feet. She looked bashful, of all things, though it appeared to be a disputed emotion. Olivia bent her knee upwards, planting her bare foot on the rail as she hooked her right arm around her thigh._ _

__“Inquis...Olivia. I was...simply saying that I believe you are too harsh with yourself. That is all.” Cassandra’s eyes scanned upwards cautiously, from her boots to the floor, then from the floor to the decorated windows opposite them. Olivia took in her profile and the pensive nature of it, but her admiration was curbed by the way her stomach grew butterflies at her words. Butterflies that were somber and unused to such brisk breezes against their wings._ _

__“Hm, well, aren’t we all,” the Inquisitor conceded, exhaling. The night was aging. Quietly, she gathered her legs together and took hold of bowl that had rested between them, absolving the two sides of the boundary line they had respected for the evening. Negotiations of interests was over enough. She would let this go, as she did all those times before. Such were the tenets of friendship. Hopping onto her feet, she took a few steps forward, side-stepping a bit as she turned to face Cassandra who remained leaning back on the rail. Cassandra, whose expression very much insisted that she was still a part of the heavy conversation at hand, looked a bit unnerved as if the moment were getting away from her. There was so much that could have, should have been said. So much that she could have offered in the argument for Olivia’s true self. She could insist upon bringing to light what yet lingered in the margins of war. Not just one piece, but the whole puzzle._ _

__Olivia watched her, expectant of a rebuttal, but receiving none. It was too heavy, too sorrowful. It could crush armored chests and ribs to dust if it stayed this way. This would not do._ _

__“Seeker...” she offered, a sly grin forming on her lips._ _

__Cassandra peered at her. “I thought we were to go by first names?”_ _

__“Habits. Anyway, you have something on your face.”_ _

__“What? Agh, Maker,” Cassandra groaned, rubbing the right side of her face with her hand. “Is it from the cherries?”_ _

__“Yes, but you’re missing it. No, more to the right. Agh, you almost had it!” Olivia said with a scrunched nose. She smirked, watching Cassandra struggle nervously. “Maker’s ass. Hold still, I’ll put you out of your misery already.” She came closer then, and Cassandra froze, her hands still to her face. Slowly they came down to her sides as she stared back at Olivia, who appeared giddy and anticipatory._ _

__Slow, so slow, until it wasn’t. Smiling quick, Olivia shoved her hand in the bowl, and at in the blink of an eye she reached and smeared cherry juice across Cassandra’s cheek and nose. Her swipe was fast and lethal, if one’s life were antagonized by sticky fruit guts. Cassandra gasped, mouth agape and eyes wide as she flinched backwards. Her startled expression was only sweetener atop the dessert of her stained face._ _

__“Got it!” Olivia laughed as she started to scurry away, bowl clutched to her stomach._ _

__Cassandra scoffed, getting a half-breath in before realizing the Inquisitor was going to make a run for it._ _

__“Oh, that is enough!” she exclaimed, going after her and pulling on her hand waving at her side. Swiftly, she gripped and pulled her back. The sudden change in inertia made Olivia exhale sharply, the bowl slipping out of her hold and skipping like a pebble across the glossy flooring. The blanket also fell, only held onto by virtue of Olivia’s bent elbow._ _

__But none of that mattered, because she was laughing._ _

__Swung back around in a flurry she tossed her head back and landed up against Cassandra in a semblance of an embrace. Their hand-holding persisted, Olivia returning the strength of Cassandra’s grip. Her other arm folded up against Cassandra’s shoulder, while Cassandra instinctively caught hold of her around her waist. What was originally a plan to capture the offender had evolved into a moment of a most unprecedented boldness between them. Cassandra thought to push her away and reject the collision before it could resonate, but the feeling of Olivia’s body against hers did what all provocations of their affection did before: surprised her with how good it felt to her. How hard it was to reject._ _

__Olivia laughed with her cheek and chin against the side of Cassandra’s shoulder, unbothered in contrast to her ally. They swayed a bit together towards the rail overlook, absorbing the weight of Olivia’s swinging into her. The sound of her laughter, something like honey on the ears. The warmth of her hands, the ones that were always warm though whether it the magic of her being, or the magic of her soul, one could never know. Cassandra was floating where she expected to sink. It was both dreaded and divine._ _

__And as Olivia’s joy settled, slow at first and then sudden, she felt it, too. On her left shoulder the warmth sensation of breath as Cassandra had joined her in her laughter, her soft, low chuckle that could always send a quiet shiver down her spine. Now, it was up close and upon her as it never had been before. In a moment that could have been no more than 15-20 seconds, it felt like she had crossed into a dream. Her giggling faded, and she heard Cassandra go quiet, too. A bit timid, Olivia pulled her head and shoulders away, eyes round and wide with irises on fire. Her mouth opened, lips moving frantically as she tried to conjure the words. Their faces were far enough for her to see the entirety of the juice stain on her face, and close enough for their breathing to dance between their lips._ _

__“I…” Olivia muttered, eyes jumping from the juice stains to Cassandra’s lips, then back up to her eyes. “I’m sorry about that.”_ _

__Cassandra blinked, arms and body frozen in place but strong. Her smile was slowly waning. “It...it is alright..”_ _

__Olivia grinned, chuckling a bit at the silliness of it all. She looked down over their right side, at the blanket that had stayed attached to her. With a soft smile she put it to Cassandra’s cheek, gently wiping in slow circles. The more she rubbed, though, the more she realized there was redness of another kind in Cassandra’s complexion underneath the mess. It was blush, of all things, and even though she took care not to react to it, the look in her eyes said what she declined to speak: it was unexpected, to say the least. Despite the fear in her chest she did not eject herself, continuing to linger in Cassandra’s hold. The Seeker only watched her face as she cleaned her face off. There was no sign of rejection from her, only cautious curiosity and wonder._ _

__Once done, Olivia let her blanket armrest around Cassandra’s upper arm. One last smile to offer to her. It was a short-lived bliss, as nothing was there to distract her. She was faced with the truth -- and that flooded the reserves of her anxious heart._ _

__“...Cassandra, I...wait...” she asked, her hand loosening its grip on the Seeker’s against their hips._ _

__“I don’t know,” Cassandra said back, “perhaps I should...perhaps we should…”_ _

__“Yes...that...that would be best.” Olivia nodded a bit, blinking and pulling her chest and shoulders away from her. Taking a step back so that their bodies were finally parted from each other, the only connection that remained was their hands. She kept thinking Cassandra would let go, that she would let her go. But she wasn’t. She never did._ _

__The atmosphere around them had gone quiet again. There was a rising ringing sound in Olivia’s ears and behind her eyes. Her throat stiff and chest heavy. Cassandra looked down at their enjoined fingers, she herself taking a step back against the rain behind her._ _

__“I…” the Seeker started, but paused._ _

__“I thought you...I thought that you didn’t…”_ _

__“I cannot say that I--”_ _

__“No, no. No, Cassandra,” Olivia’s voice became brittle. “Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.”_ _

__“Olivia, I have--”_ _

__“I am the Inquisitor, Cassandra,” Olivia interrupted again, letting go and stepping back farther away from her. Her head was shaking back and forth, panicked. “And you...you are...did you not hear a word I just said?”_ _

__“Is it truly that impossible to believe I may...that I may…”_ _

__Olivia tilted her head, shoulders shaking a bit. “Are you joking with me? You cannot be seriously insinuating that...what?!”_ _

__“Do you think this has been easy for me, Inquisitor? That I have carried this with a clean and unburdened conscience?”_ _

__“If it has been so conflicted for you surely you must know it has to end. Honestly, you think I am ludicrous and intemperate,” she groaned a bit and turned around. “I’m going to bed, and you should, too. Tomorrow we can start anew and this will have been a reckless dream.”_ _

__She started walking, again, this time holding her arms close to her chest with the blanket hooked over her forearms. Her hands were vibrating almost, rhythmic and bothered. Undoubtedly her eyes were mirroring and reflecting the growing pressure in her mana. Setting a tree on fire sounded pretty good right about then._ _

__“Inquisitor!” Cassandra whisper-yelled, stepping after her._ _

__Olivia closed her eyes, slowing to a stop and turning a bit to the side._ _

__“I...I can admit that my position has been most unwise. I do not pretend to be as in control as you believe I am. But if what we are about to face at Adamant is beyond our apprehension of its severity, you should know at least that...that I…”_ _

__“Cassandra, the truth is a curse on the living and a waste on the dead. Do not cross this line with me if all it is is your way of ensuring the secrets get burned with what remains of my body should I fall. You know my limits. I am no discarding place for your hypocrisy.” She stayed still, facing the direction which would take her back to her room, back to her refuge, doing what she did best: burning the path in her wake of her leaving._ _

__Cassandra’s lips closed, and her facade hardened. She had opened herself up, or at least started to, and Olivia had licked an arrowhead between her teeth, aimed, and fired._ _

__“You are not the only one who stands to die from what awaits us. Goodnight, Inquisitor.” And with that, she pulled the arrow from her heart, and launched it back to that of its original owner. Vanishing back inside the hall from which Olivia had come from, she denied the Inquisitor the final word._ _

__Olivia stood there, alone and choking back tears. The hand that had held hers in a fist and reeling from its philandering. The ghost of her touch was both a boon and a miracle. All that was, and all that would be, was uncertain. But, as Olivia rushed to her window, climbing inside and slamming it shut, latch and all, the sovereignty of her solitude was writhing. For as much as she rejected any and all possibility of it, of whatever it was that loomed in the wings for them, she could not cut it out. Holding the blanket in her hands to look at the stains of translucent red and purple on the fabric, her convictions went to war with one another._ _

__It wasn’t hollow. It wasn’t cheap. It was as if...as if it had always been meant to be this way. And that terrified her more than anything that could manufacture itself in her nightmares._ _


	45. Battle Sacraments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the siege on Adamant is on. Olivia takes a spare last series of moments to herself, only it does not last long. Visits from allies, first Solas, and then Cullen, and lastly Cassandra, both disturb and distill her nerves for what awaits her. She and Cassandra tie up a loose end as best they can with battle on the other side of the proverbial door.

_A note from the Inquisitor, sealed by her own personal emblem, left with the Ambassador’s office before the departure for Adamant:_

_Josephine and Leliana,_

_These are the provisioned final wishes of Lady Olivia Berenice of House Sinclair, known in life as the Lady Inquisitor._

_If my body is recovered, burn me in Skyhold, where I came the closest to having a home built upon liberty as anything._

_Tell my allies that it was an honor to stand beside them for this cause. Tell Varric that he will have to answer to me for any embellishments or falsehoods in his stories about me, no matter how trivial. Tell him that he is a greater man than even he knows. Tell Sera that I adore her, and hope that she will stay brave even when the terrors of life unfold. Tell Blackwall thank you for everything, and for going above and beyond expectations. Tell Bull that he is one of the greatest leaders I have ever known or seen, and that the Chargers have my love and respect. Tell Vivienne that I hope she protects our people, and remembers our discussions and just how extraordinary she is. Tell Solas that he is better at friendship than he admits or believes he deserves, and that I will miss him. Tell Dorian that he is a smug bastard and that he owes me for whatever it is I did, and that I love him, and that I will haunt him should he turn back on his convictions. Tell Cole that it is alright to rest and to be loved for who he is and not just what he is able to provide for others. Tell Cullen that despite everything, I commend him for his dedication and hope that he will not lose his faith, because that is his strength. Tell Cassandra that I believed in her more than she knew, and more than I admitted, and I am sorry for not saying it when I had the chance to._

_Josephine, thank you for being a shining example of kindness in this world. I hope you hold onto that, even as the days ahead darken._

_Leliana, your power is your love. Even with teeth bared and blade drawn, it is your devotion that prevails. Keep steady._

_The attached, pre-sealed letters that are to names I have not explained on this note are to be kept sealed until the people they are meant for can have them. They are personal in nature; if they are not claimed in a year’s time after my death, or more catastrophic events unfold preventing their transferral, they are to be destroyed by fire._

_I have signed and sealed this document with witnesses._

\--

She loved breathing in smoke. The way it smelled different depending on what was burned. In Chantries back home and altars in the Circle she loved to sit and breathe in the incense until it blanket her lungs. Campfires she and her friends made out in the wild, burning different kinds of wood. They all had a particular kind of scent, a kind of heaviness, that came from unique materials. People choked and coughed at the exposure to harsh, billowing smoke, and rightfully so, after all. Lungs did not live off of smoke and ash unless they belonged in the chest of dragons, phoenixes, and other creatures of old. Olivia never did. Sometimes, it was a wonder whether that was related to her magic, or something else entirely.

The tent that had been designated for her for the Adamant encampment was far and away larger than any tent she had known on prior missions. There was space to walk and stand tall, for one. As one walked in through the opening, to the left there was a wood frame bed with blankets. In the far right corner, two chairs with a table. Her two trunks of clothes and armor were in the opposite corner past her bed. Instead of having it be a lap of comfort, however, Olivia had a broader table brought in for scrolls, maps, and plans to be sprawled before her. In many ways her own personal space became the satellite war council room, and soldiers, couriers, and the Commander himself trafficked the space heavily the day prior to the march on Adamant.

But, the night was upon them, and there could be no more waiting or preparation. The two hours before the advance were spent arming herself, inhaling the incense she had burning on bowls on the strategy table. Her meditative rituals were harder to maintain in the midst of so much unknown. It was harder to keep steady both in breathing and heart.

For as much as the stirrings of fear ran amok in her spirit, she looked the part. Armor and hide in opaque black and dark grey, breastplate cloaked in a thick vest. Harritt had described it as the “superior” Enchanter armor, though Olivia was unsure whether that was an objective appraisal or a reflection on his personal investment in its creation. Either way, she appreciated the confidence.

She had braided and twisted her hair out of her eyes, allowing it to fall behind her back in waves that reached the small of her waist. Across her face, a band of charcoal war paint stretched across her eyes from temple to temple. It was a reminder of those memories in her head of Theia and Veronica, faces streaked with dirt and mud when they went on a hunt to mask their identities as if they were long-lost, infamous heroines. Olivia had always looked upon such practices as trivial, until the moment was upon her where it gave her courage. Maybe that was why they did it: to feel mighty, to feel ready.

Olivia wanted to feel ready. She wanted to be ready. But, hearing the thundering sounds that lay outside: heavy, booted footfalls, the storm clouds in the mountains draped over the horizon line. The range that Adamant was embedded in felt like the fallout of an engulfing fire, aged and scorned land done in by smoke and heat. For a stronghold as old as the second Blight, Adamant must have seen things and withstood horrors she could not possibly imagine.

But, where she could not, certain people could. One of them, one of the few she knew, entered her tent as she was standing beside her bowl of streaming incense, lost in thought.

“Inquisitor,” Solas’s measured voice rung out into the open space, calling her back into the present. She looked over at him, giving him a once-over to admire the armor he, too, had been entrusted with. Superior Enchanters with their superior armor.

“Solas,” she returned coolly, taking one last glance down at the table in front of her. “Have you come with a pressing matter?”

“If I had, I am sure it could wait given the circumstances before us,” he said as he stepped closer, hands at his sides and staff on his back. “I came to see you, as it seems I have done often before the approaching precipices of this journey you and undertaken.”

Olivia chuckled softly, folding her arms as she pivoted on her hip to face him head on. “I still remember Haven. I must have been so wide-eyed.”

“You were, but it was to be expected. Even now, I would not blame you for astonishment.”

“I am afraid I have learned from my inner circle how to better suppress such emotions,” Olivia teased, taking a couple steps toward him. “You have seen and witnessed echoes of such conflicts in your travels. Tell me, do you have any predictions or assumptions about how this night will imprint, as all the ones of old have?”

Solas grinned a bit, tilting his head a bit downward as he gave a careful, but intrigued expression. “Inquisitor, history does not follow our dictation as a nobleman’s scribes may. We are but fashioning our impressions that we may only have a scarce glimpse of before it is our time to move on. What will happen, and indeed, what has already happened, are just as mysterious to me as it is to you.”

Olivia watched him, a momentary pause of reflection as she looked upon her friend, her first active ally in her innermost struggle to become who she needed to be. The person, the Apostate, from whom no one expected such attentiveness.

“History does not like to be named for what it is as it lurks for us all,” Olivia concluded in unison with his wisdom, “I suppose curiosity caught my tongue.”

“I understand. In any case, the soldiers are ready and the banners yet fly for you. You have taken your place as a leader and figurehead. Do not let the prowling of memories not yet created discourage you in that.” The wise softness in Solas’s attitude was a rarity in those days, the weeks and indeed, months before they had arrived. Olivia had spread herself thin among her allied influences, growing away from her original ties. In the moment, in the solemn seclusion of their friendship, she saw the bond she had to place on the shelf in order to do so.

“Solas,” she smiled, reaching a hand and placing it on his shoulder, just as she had done in the older days. “I am thankful for you. You have never had to be so dedicated, as much as you disagree with me on that account. Your loyalty, your acumen, it is something I will treasure always.”

At her words, Solas’s eyes locked on hers, and for a passing few seconds the color in them looked distorted. It was as if their forecasts of emotions had suddenly changed, ebbed by her words and moved by the gesture she had offered. But, for all their expressiveness, his face did not crack in its pensiveness. He bowed his head lightly, hands gathering behind his back.

“This cause is one for us all to be such. Now, I must go, and prepare for the trials we are to face. Take care, Inquisitor,” he said, lips upturned a bit at the corners as he stepped back away from her.

As he turned and walked towards the tent, Olivia felt one more pang of honesty in her chest.

“Solas?” she asked after him, stepping a couple feet in following. He stopped in his tracks, looking over his shoulder with an unassuming look.

“You are a wonderful teacher. More than you know. I look forward to finally holding my own at your side.”

Solas did not immediately respond. For a few seconds, the two just stared at each other, deadlocked in their eyes and their intentions. Then, his grin grew more broad.

“Inquisitor, talent and skill do not determine one’s survival alone. While you may yet be more capable of skills which were previously underdeveloped, it was not your fortitude that was in doubt.”

There was slight, bashful warmth in Olivia’s cheeks. She had one more reason to be thankful for the black paint on her face, smiling as she waved Solas off. As he exited, the shadows of two figures approached the opening of her tent, shoulders and arms broad from the shape of their armor. When they came in, Olivia only glanced briefly before turning away, confirming her suspicion of who had come calling. It was the Seeker and Commander, side-by-side and foreboding in their looks as they came to stand towards the middle of the tent.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said as he yanked on the fit of his glove, “the men are ready. The trebuchets have been prepared and await kindling. We march at your word.”

Olivia bit her lip a bit, taking one last surveying look at her “quarters.” Leaned against one of the chairs in the right corner was her staff, equipped and polished, ready for a long and difficult fight. The apostate staff blade, long, sharp, and uncracked, shining in the flickering candlelight originating from the war table. The blade metal matched the two dual blades strapped on the back of her belt.

“Good. I will be on my way, then,” she replied calmly, hands flexing against the leather of her tight gloves.

Cullen gave a nod, shooting a parting gaze at the Seeker before he went to take his leave. Though, Olivia had it in her for one more last-minute wish.

“Cullen,” she said, twisting her shoulders to face him, “thank you for your leadership on this. We could not have gotten here without you. Be safe, I will see you at the front.”

Cullen, who had stopped sharply to look back at her, could not stifle all of the surprise he felt. Their dynamic had de-escalated in anger the past few months, yet compliments and consideration were still abnormal. Though, the sincerity in Olivia’s face told him everything he needed to know about her motivations. With a strained grin he bowed his tilted head towards her, his hand on his sword pommel as he withdrew for good, disappearing outside.

That left them alone. Alone, alone, alone. Alone was always bad, was it not? Yet there they were, alone.

Olivia watched as the Seeker lowered her eyes to the ground. She gathered her hands behind her, armor clinking coarsely as she moved to head for the exit, too.

“Cassandra,” Olivia said, turning back around to face her squarely. “Wait.”

For once the shoe was on the other foot for leaving conversations undone. Halting and facing towards Olivia’s bed and trunks, she kept her chin slightly tucked. Dutiful, single-minded, tough. Prepared and stoic for the task at hand.

“You choose now to speak to me, after all that time we had between Montsimmard and here?” Cassandra inquired coldly, arms resting at her sides.

Standing still as if an ounce of movement would instigate an all-out brawl between them, Olivia inhaled slowly. All at once, the thoughts, the arguments, the rebuttals she had formulated in her head between that time and now blew up in her head. Larger than life were her fears, and more damning than death were her habits. Though, the one truth that withstood the chaos in her mind was that she missed her.

“Cassandra, I...I regret how I left that night. I do. All things considered, I--”

“Do not make me the discarding place for your hypocrisy,” Cassandra interrupted, her words sharp like fresh knives and twice as precise in their slicing.

Olivia’s chest hollowed out. She had messed up.

“I was harsh, I know that. I am asking your forgiveness.”

Cassandra’s glare rose to meet the Inquisitor’s eyes. The severity of them could topple mountains to her will if she thought it best. The darkness, the depth, the depravity, even. There was no war paint thick or menacing enough that Olivia could bare on her face that would make her feel immune to such a sight. Butterflies surged in her once more as they stared at each other, the silence overwhelming with so much echoing beyond their stolen space.

“Is this your means of making a joke in dire circumstances?” Cassandra asked, folding her arms. The rigidity and strength in her body was salt on the wounds of Olivia’s intimidated self.

She took a breath, feeling the weight of her armor bracing against her. “It is my means of being an imperfect woman facing uncertainty, the only promise being violence and loss, to a degree which I have no way of predicting. I was wrong. I should have known better than to put myself, to put us in a circumstance that would...that...agh, Maker…” she struggled as she stepped to the side, towards the war table where all things made sense. Fighting off the urge to rub her face and thus ruin her paint, she placed her fingers on the tabletop and lowered her head.

A few more agonizing seconds passed, with nothing but a standoff to speak of. Then, relenting a bit, Cassandra walked towards her, standing a couple yards from her at the other end of the table.

“Inquisitor, we both made choices that were...unwise, and based in careless emotions. Do not weigh your shoulders with more than you must. Not while so much is expected of us, and of you. It is hardly sensible.”

“I just...I cannot for the life of me understand why you...why you would…”

“Inquisitor.”

Olivia’s chin leaned to her right, her eyes looking out from her periphery down at her ally. Their eyes, joined and disarmed in their connection despite the soreness of the topic. Cassandra looked conflicted, caught between her habit of focusing on the duties in front of her nose and rising above them to address a haunting matter. Her face was stern, but her body, her energy felt out of balance with her facade.

Having quieted the Inquisitor in her rambling, the Seeker continued.

“Now is not the time. You must focus. For the sake of our forces and yourself, you must be the Inquisitor. Forget about the menial nature of interpersonal slights and details that may not matter when the dawn rises. Your duty comes first.”

Unfortunately Cassandra’s words did little to lessen the dread in Olivia’s gut. She chuckled dryly, her voice empty of all jovial emotion that she had been known for. Leaning back off the table, her palms sliding onto the sides of her thighs, she felt the cold of her equipped body. Her chin raised, level with the floor. Shoulders pushing back a bit.

“You are right.”

“Yes, I know. You have just admitted it at last.”

Olivia shot her a sore glare, a grin cracking unevenly on her lips. “Is this your means of cheering me up before battle, Seeker?”

Cassandra huffed, rocking her head side to side. “You think you are deserving of such grace?”

“No, but charity is not precluded on lofty qualification.”

“Neither is pity.”

Once again they stared in silence. Cassandra’s face relaxed a bit, as did her shoulders. Her eyes flickered once towards the ground, then back to Olivia’s dark-lined eyes that glimmered with anxiety.

“Seeker,” Olivia said suddenly, stepping closer to her, stopping with only a couple feet between them. The space was so close that she had to look up towards her, their height difference unavoidable with the increased proximity.

Cassandra’s shell of unwavering seriousness began to waver with the encroaching presence of her. Her shallow grin fell; what was it to be, a punch, a stab, a shove?

“Yes?” she replied as Olivia came to stand still in front of her.

“No matter what happens, I want you to know that nothing would ever convince me to not battle at your side. Even if we had not gotten the chance to speak before the siege, even if...no matter what. Even if you do not always have my good graces, you will have my loyalty. That is my promise to you. I would have your back”

Cassandra was originally standoffish, faced with the risk of more hurtful words out of Olivia’s mouth. But, when her tongue dripped sweetness rather than sourness, it was a wonderment how easily it made her come undone. Her brow rounded, relaxed as her jaw then became. Her lips frowned, but not out of sorrow or pain.

“And I would have yours, Inquisitor,” she promised in return, nodding once.

A smile crept onto Olivia’s face, a fragile one, but sincere. She walked over to her, reaching a hand out in a gesture of good faith. Cassandra returned the pleasantry, lending out her arm. In unison the women clasped hands, Olivia shaking them once in a singular, stiff motion. Looking at each other, they stalled, gloved hands linked. After a moment like that Olivia looked at their hands, blinked, and bit at the inside of her bottom lip. Cassandra, on the other hand, only had her eyes on her, never parting her gaze from her face. Endlessly vigilant, devoted in her oversight.

At last Olivia let go, stepping back and bowing her head to her. “I will get my staff. Let us go and see this through.”

\--

The Seeker and Inquisitor marched out onto the road path between the rows of tents, towards the horses that were lined up and tied to a hammered-in post. Shoulder to shoulder, and Olivia’s staff looming over her shoulder, she eyed the rocky horizon ahead of them and the fortress walls that reigned supremely against the landscape. It was terrifying. The night sky and the range could scarcely be differentiated by the naked eye, if it weren’t for the moonlight casting on the grey stone of the architecture. The trebuchets tall and scattered, foreseeable through the uneven land. Flickering spots of torch lights danced around them. They would ride perhaps a half a mile at most, clear over the final ridge line that separated the encampments from the field in front of the fortress gates, and be in the throng of the troops. She would dismount and proceed to the front on foot from there, along with her selected allies.

But, in that moment, in the “calm” before the storm, she clung to the truth of what was in front of her nose: her and Cassandra, walking together, the air of war around them. Little did she know that, mixed in with the aura of scorn and pain, was the unspoken and bittersweet truth: Cassandra had been, was, and would continue to pray to herself that this would not be the last time they would do so together. Breaking her own rule of focus and discipline that she had so resolutely defined in their conversation, she kept it close to her chest. Buried, along with the rest of the artifacts of her unexpected devotion to her.

No one would know, looking at the two women, the two warriors, the two allies, that their strength hid such vexed hearts.


	46. Taken Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor and her allies have found themselves transported physically into the Fade by virtue of a hail Mary on her part to save them. The initial traversing of its decrepit landscape introduces them to the Divine -- or, something like her -- who provides Olivia the opportunity at long last to piece together the memories she had lost to the Temple's explosion. Some devastating revelations ensue.

The taste of blood mixed with salted sweat. Dirt and sand gritted between teeth. Muscles tired under the guise of limitless adrenaline. Limits reached and exceeded, at what cost is uncertain in the moment and almost always sobering in the aftermath. Memories, emotions, virtues, convictions, either weaved in with the armor or cast out in the shadow of who one is needed to be. Defined by everything that gets them to the point of either death or life. Whether life is the triumph and death the loss, time withholds for a later reckoning.

This was Adamant.

But even in all of its forsaken glory and tragic disparagement, even the fortress of the Wardens could not compare to what the night had in store for the Inquisition and its leader. It all took a turn when Warden Commander Clarel went after and confronted the man called Erimond on the bridge platform overlooking not only the fortress itself, but the entire mountain canyon it was perched on. The dragon, endless in its devotion to any lackey of Corypheus, backed him up when his own talents failed to disarm a capable and seasoned Clarel. It was too late to intervene. All at once, as the Inquisition’s allies arrived at the scene, Clarel was taken by the dragon like a piece of scrap meat, and tossed across the stone. That left Erimond and the allies cornered by the creature. But, one last gambit from Clarel and her magic stunned the dragon. It collapsed under its weight, pulling the decaying bridge with it. Caught in the fray of it all, Olivia, Bull, Cassandra, and Solas, along with Hawke and Warden Stroud, plummeted down into the canyon below. If it weren’t for a last-minute reach on Olivia’s part with her anchored hand, that might have been it.

Perhaps it would have been the more merciful outcome, for what they stood to endure because of her quick instincts.

\--

“This...this is the Fade,” Solas said in wonderment as he arrived at the Inquisitor’s side, as she along with Hawke and Stroud looked upon the hole from which they had fallen through. Standing diagonally on a boulder and defying gravity. “The Inquisitor opened a rift. We came through...and survived. I never thought I would find myself here physically. Look, the Black City...almost close enough to touch.”

Hawke sighed and glanced at Olivia. “The Fade looks different from the last time I was here. The stories say you walked out of it physically. Was this how you remembered it?”

Olivia dusted off her thigh, feeling the aching weight of the staff on her back, her blades that had dug into her hips when she collapsed on the ground minutes prior. “That’s the thing, really. I don’t remember. I have no recollection of my time in it, only waking up in Haven.”

“That is...both convenient and inconvenient,” Hawke added, folding her arms. Her shoulder-length black hair half in her face from the tumble.

Behind the Inquisitor, Cassandra appeared and stood near Solas. Bull was not too far behind her.

“Boss, we’ve gotten into some shit, but this...this takes the shit cake,” he said, scowling up at the sky.

Olivia felt her shoulders hunch. Indeed it was the shit cake. Nothing beats physically entering the Fade to be at the peril of its work and power, right?

“In the real world, there was a rift that opened into the Great Hall. We should find it. That will be out way out,” Stroud estimated.

“Solas, do you think that could work?” Olivia asked, turning to him.

Solas’s eyes narrowed, his attention still on the path before them. “Either way, Inquisitor, do we have much of a choice?”

“...you are right,” Olivia concluded, sighing roughly as she wiped her mouth of the coagulated blood stains and dirt. “We need to get out of here, as quick as possible. Nothing about being here physically will bode well for us. Let’s go.”

Hanging back a bit to ensure that the group coalesced, Olivia brought up the middle of them walking nearest Solas and Bull, Cassandra flanking them and scanning the nearby horizon. Stroud and Hawke came down from their unorthodox perches and brought up the rear as they approached a path lined by black, cracked peaks of rock and boulders. The ground was wet, but not soaked or muddy as it would have been expected to be. This was no marshland, no fertile ground for dense life growth. It was a wading, stagnant niche for stagnation. This was most unlike anything either Solas, Olivia, or Hawke had encountered in their experiences with the Fade. With all three present Mages out of their element in what would be their field of expertise, anything could happen. And, to be frank, most everything did.

Coming to the mouth of the path, a figure became visible. White robes, with red and gold embellishment, and a tall hat of sorts. The face as they drew nearer became older, worn, but pleasant as if some kind of cheerful welcoming committee. There was only one person in all of southern Thedas who dressed and appeared this way, and she had been dead for months.

“Maker…” Stroud gasped as the came to stand before the stranger. Before he could say it, though, the stranger spoke.

“I greet you, Warden, and you, Champion,” an Orlesian accent, not heavy, but prevalent. Olivia recognized it, from both childhood and memories faded into the visceral parts of her mind.

“Divine Justinia...Most Holy…?” Cassandra said, standing near Olivia’s left shoulder. Her words brought the reality to bare.

“Cassandra,” the Divine replied, a gentle smile appearing on her lips. Her aura, her demeanor, was resigned in such a blissful way. It unnerved Olivia to find such a thing, such a person, in the middle of all the dank and dreary environment they had found themselves in.

Olivia’s eyes widened. “Cassandra, you knew her. Is this...is this…” she hesitated to say “this” or to use pronouns referring to a person. It was a hard sell to believe either way.

“I...I don’t know. It is said the souls of the dead pass through the Fade and sometimes linger, but...we know the spirits lie. Be wary, Inquisitor,” she warned carefully, not taking her eyes off the Divine figure before them.

Stroud, more heavy handed, added his sense. “I believe the Divine is indeed dead. It is likely we face a spirit...or a demon.”

Olivia heard his words as she stared at the figure, her mind feverishly trying to synthesize her senses with her knowledge accumulated over years of study. Turns out theory can be a difficult thing to translate into practice. No Circle study could have prepared her for this, and once more, it probably should not have had to. Alas, the circumstance had unfolded.

Unimpressed with the postulation, however, the Divine -- hands at her sides and posture straight -- complicated matters.

“You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand alive yourselves. In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have.”

“Really? How hard is it to answer one question? I am a human, and you are…”

Olivia glanced at Hawke with a look of caution. Whispering as if standing in front of a potential, fragile adversary on her hands: “Hawke, perhaps...not...the time…”

“I am here to help you. You,” the Divine said, calling Olivia’s specific attention, “you do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitor.”

Olivia’s raised her brow, her throat tight with nervousness. Anything to do with the Divine in the real world would inspire indignation on her part, but in this case, something about encountering her likeness in the Fade of all places left her will little sense to work with. Instead there was nervousness, unanswered questions she knew she had no time to ask or ponder to herself. All the while time spun with or without her consent.

“No, I...you know, I am going to politely shelve the nature of you knowing my title, and simply answer your question for now. No, I do not remember. Did you have something to do with that?”

“No, you lost them to the demon that serves Corypheus. It is the nightmare you forget upon waking,” the Divine explained as she turned to look up at the green, overcast sky of toxic looking clouds and anomalies. “It feeds off of memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon terror. The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work.”

“I would gladly avenge the insult this nightmare dealt my brethren,” Stroud interjected confidently, dedicated even at the end of the line.

The Divine’s smile grew wider, but only by a bit. It betrayed the flatness in her eyes, the plain and unbothered warmth in them that was neither lively nor fluid. Olivia noticed their lack of fluctuation, but did not question.

“You will have your chance, brave Warden. This place of darkness is its lair.”

Olivia let her hands fall from her hips. “Wait, so,” she started, giggling anxiously, “that demon you just described in decrepit and disturbing detail? That demon?”

“Yes.”  


“...Alright,” Olivia smiled drily, wiping her wrist against the top of her forehead as her eyes rolled shut. “Where does Corypheus get the premium on demon slavery so that I may promptly destroy it and whatever else he uses to sweeten the pot for them?”

The Divine eyed her. “I know not of how Corypheus manages this. His power may come from the blight itself. But the nightmare demon works willingly, because he has brought terror onto this world. He was one of the Magisters who brought the first Blight upon the world, was he not? Every child’s cry in the night, every Dwarf’s whimper in the Deep Roads...the demon has fed well.”

Olivia swallowed stiffly. “So...it is not only powerful, but it is nearby?”  


“Yes.”

“...Okay, that is....wonderful to know, uh…” she stuttered as she twisted around a bit, shifting her weight from one hip to another. “The goal is still getting out of here and I would argue that detail has only exacerbated my ambitions for it. So, how do we accomplish that?”

The Divine tilted her chin, seemingly unphased by Olivia’s growing urgency. “When you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part of you. Before anything else, you must recover it.” She then gestured towards the rocky glen before them, the entrance to the path they had sought. At her word almost, plumes of green smoke spirits appeared in several places throughout the clearing, oscillating and glowing like beacon points. Their glow glistened in Olivia’s eyes as her irises welled with brightness. Her memories, her experiences, the truth of what happened. The girls, how she came to find herself so far in the Temple with no witnesses or friends: the missing sinew between her life before and after the Temple’s explosion. The darkness that she had not been able to decipher for months upon months. They awaited her, now only yards away.

Her breath stopped as her lips parted. “These...these are them? My memories?” she asked, a tone of new desperation in her voice.

“Yes,” the Divine replied, stepping back.

As if a predator having tasted or smelled blood on its target, she honed in on the task at hand. No more explanation, no more debate. Olivia was emboldened where the fatigue of battle had reigned unchallenged in her body and soul. Turning to face the wraiths head on, she grit her teeth, brow falling. They all floated there, amorphous and seething, inviting her to reckon with them. She noticed only the sight of Cassandra staring at her out of the corner of her eye as she approached them, her footsteps feeling more subconscious than active choices.

“Inquisitor…” Solas’s voice echoed from behind.

“No,” Olivia answered in a guttural, low voice. Reaching back behind her, she unsheathed her daggers in a wicked flash, blades catching fire fueled by the runes in their hilts. Swiveling them as she held them out at her sides, her eyes matched her ferocious light. All this time, all this pain, all this unknown. She was seduced into the promise of clarity like nothing else.

“I will have back what is mine.”

Bull stepped closer to the Seeker, pulling his ax from his back. “We better back her up before she attracts every demon for miles with her plucky inferno.”

Cassandra sighed a bit as she watched her walk, pulling her sword with one robust, though strained motion. And so it continued.

\--

 _Plunged into the depths of senses robbed from her for all these months, time took shape --_

The Temple seemed simple enough in design, so why on Earth was she getting lost so easy? The stone walls and ceilings were tall, the hallways wide and long. There could only be so many right and left turns, so many entryways. Yet, it took every last bit of her sobered awareness and a little bit of luck to follow after Veronica’s movements. She was searching like a wild woman, no method to her madness like before. Perhaps it was the feeling that came from Templars around almost every corner, their heavyset steps and armor bringing back the universe of emotions and instincts.

Olivia had ditched the shoes at the back window she had crept in. Hair tied up and wrapped in her scarf, tucked underneath her old vest hood. She was dirty, tired, sick of every little inconvenience. But she was there, and that was what mattered.

She came to a cracked open doorway and slinked against it like a shadow, listening in. Would it be a room of Mages, Templars, both? Neither? The firelight that beamed from the cracks in the door frame suggested it would be populated by someone, anyone. She waited for footfalls, aches in the wood, cups or dining ware on tables. But there was nothing. Sliding across the small opening and continuing down the hall, she stopped when she thought she heard something behind her, back down the corridor from whence she came. Falling back against the wall she looked back down the way, but there was nothing. No one, not even a breath. It was too hard to distinguish the proximities of magic with so many Mages in one concentrated space -- she hadn’t felt this embedded in her own kind’s ranks since the Circle.

Just as she rounded to return onto the path ahead of her the wind was knocked out of her. A hand around her waist from behind, and another across the mouth. Her feet were picked up off the ground and she fought the urge to scream, to cry, to bite, to cause a ruckus. The person’s gloved index finger went across her eyes and she had to close them, removing more of her senses. Clutching and gripping on anything at her back, she felt the narrowness and thinness of the figure. Clues that would have her guess it was a woman, but with no means of knowing for sure, she withheld her judgment. Whoever it was, was strong enough to subdue her physically with little to no heavy armor.

At last, after some quiet wrestling and heartbeat racing, she was tossed into a hall and through a single doorway. It was a pantry closet, stocks of incense, tapestries, and pottery. No light, but an unlit torch was made quick work of as she huffed a breath of intentional air, lighting it with her magic. The wooden shelves had accumulated enough dust to see its film on everything, and cobwebs hung from corners. This was a Temple of Sacred Ashes? Looked more mediocre and overabundant ashes, to be honest.

“Who are yo--” she whipped around, backing up to see and cutting herself off once she saw. Without a comforting word or apology, Veronica unhooded herself. She had a dagger at her hip and another strapped to her thigh. Both clean, yet to be used.

“Veronica!” Olivia gasped, watching as she shut the door, “why would you do that to me?”

“Shhh! Shove it, Gem, what are you doing here? You scared me half to death,” Veronica growled back, the torchlight dancing across her oval, sullen face. “I told you not to follow me!”

“I...I....!” Olivia struggled, hands out at her sides as she looked around them.

“Spit it out!” Veronica pressed, planting a foot forward and pointing at her.

“I wanted to help! I’m scared for you and Theia. I did not want you to go alone!” Olivia at last confessed, breath heaving with panicked breathing. “Please, let me help!”

Veronica groaned, leaning back and rubbing the side of her neck. “Maker’s tits, Olivia, you are a bigger pain in my ass than Theia ever was.”

“I know I am, but I am here to help. I brought my knives and a couple of Naomi’s and my--”

“I don’t need your help, Olivia! I don’t need help at all, but least of all you!”

“...But...but you don’t mean that,” Olivia stood back, her hands cradling themselves in front of her chest. “Veronica, we don’t let our own fend for themselves, we protect each other.”

“Pfft, you think that mattered at all outside of you and Theia? You think you are here for me? Be honest with yourself. You don’t give a rat’s ass about me in comparison to your precious Theia-bird!”

Olivia’s mouth went agape. The world seemed to go topsy-turvy, gravity ceasing to make sense. Her mana flared and rippled within her bones and muscles. None of this was making sense.

“Veronica, what on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this little thing you have had, this thing I didn’t even want to believe, but you being here...you...you lying to me! How can it not be obvious to you?!”

“What are you talking about? I love you both. I am here for you both!”  


“You were never here for me, or there for me, or anywhere for me! You were there for Theia, and you are here for her now. Where Theia goes, you go. Except the one time when she needed someone to pull her back from the brink of her own stupidity, you lagged! You failed her when she needed it most, and told me it was my problem to fix!”

Olivia blinked, her eyes glazing a bit. The ferocity in Veronica’s expression: her rounded, stressed lips, her brows pressed together, her brown eyes full of suppressed and unvindicated disdain. All for her.

“Ver...Veronica, I...I do not know what you think you’ve seen or heard, but there has been nothin--”

“Oh, don’t play that Orlesian trifle with me, Olivia. You know better. You were always there, picking up the mess and being miss woman-on-the-spot when Theia and I had our words. You got a little too cozy, if you ask me. But now, now is my time. Now it’s my chance to be Theia’s right-hand-girl, and you don’t get to take this from me! Not after all this work I’ve put in. You need to leave!”

“Veronica, are you going mad?!” Olivia bent over in her posture, hands crossing. “This is the most dangerous place for an uninvited rogue Mage. The place is crawling with Templars. You are going to endanger yourself and Theia if you do not have cover. Please, let me back you up!”

Veronica sucked on the side of her cheek, standing back and glaring at her friend who turned into a would-be-thunder-stealer. She was like an unyielding wall of stone and steel when she got like this. “You’re going to make sure you ruin this, aren’t you?” she sneered before unsheathing her daggers from their holsters.

Olivia’s eyes widened, seeing the blades shine dull in the limited light of the room. “What are you doing?”

“I am finally speaking a language you understand, Gem: one where you have no options but to listen and play along sweetly.” Her eyes became ravenous with the need for vindicated anger. Olivia began to back up, knowing the wall was only a yard away from her back. Her hands went flat facing it in anticipation of bracing.

“You would never kill me, Ro.”

“Never,” Veronica said as she spat onto the ground, “But, you know, little Gem: something about the way your eyes are aflame right now tells me that you believe that statement less than you want to admit. Nice of you to come all this way to backup someone you’re secretly afraid is capable of betraying you, huh?”

Olivia gulped, though she tried her best to hide it. Now against the marble wall, and Veronica coming in closer and closer, until her breath cascaded down Olivia’s mouth and neckline as she stared point-blank into her eyes. One dagger went to the center of Olivia’s stomach, pressing against her vest and carving a small impression in it. Olivia’s chest raised as she sucked in her gut.

“Veronica, have some sense,” she pleaded, “think of what you’re doing.”

“I have thought enough,” Veronica hummed back, pressing the dagger point in a bit more. “My favorite thought, though, is how useless you actually are with that unpracticed magic of yours and no sharp dinner knives to work with.”

Olivia had had enough. She scowled and acted fast, shoving Veronica by the shoulders back just enough to give her the space to come away from the wall. As Ro huffed, Olivia slapped her straight across the face, enough to stun her but not to harm her or leave an intentional mark. Raising her palms in unison she ignited balls of flame in her hands.

“You think I have only played with dinner knives, Ro?” she asked, before lifting a leg and kicking Veronica square in in stomach. As her friend fell back, arms flying as she ended up against a wood shelf that swayed and cracked at her weight, Olivia took a step forward. “Have some sense for once! You are not yourself, and you are in a nest of venomous animals who would have no concern over disposing of you.”

Veronica growled, launching herself away from the shelf. She came at her swinging, daggers swirling around her as she turned counterclockwise, swiping and slicing out at Olivia with a vengeance. Olivia dodged and weaved, muttering a bit in surprise. Her bluff was called -- she would never hurt Veronica, or any of the girls, for the sake of her nonexistent pride. That meant defense, not offense, but with someone as hungry in their hating as Veronica seemed to be, that could only endure for so long.

A few moments of this: Veronica trying to take chunks out of her, and Olivia using anything and everything to fend her off without attacking. Tossing pottery in front of her path, sending bursts of fire aimed at her dagger grips to make the blades too hot to hold. It was useless -- none of that would work against a fellow fire-loving Mage. This was why Veronica and Olivia never sparred or found themselves as adversaries: they were two wounded, pining birds of a tattered feather.

Eventually, Olivia was back where she started: pinned against the wall with Veronica holding a knife end against her. The two women breathed heavier after their cat-and-mouse conflict, Olivia only having managed to cause burns on Veronica’s arms that would heal within days, if not sooner with Naomi as a healer. But the Gem had been bested, and as Veronica glared at her, faces inches from each other, she hoped this would mean begrugened mercy.

The sound of sliding metal reached her ears as their eyes remained locked on each other. Frozen between a rock and a hard place, Olivia felt the weight of her daggers on her belt lessen.

“You’re...you’re disarming me?”

“Psh,” Veronica smirked dryly, gathering her breath as she stepped back. Charmingly, she tossed Olivia’s dagger in the air that was hooked on her own blade. She caught it in her teeth as it came down tilted, her teeth shining and menacing. Sheathing her own blades to free up a hand, she grabbed it from her mouth and shook her head. “I’d be a fool to say you’re disarmed. But, I reckon it’ll take time for you to fuck your way through the Temple’s dignitaries until one tells you where to go. All the while I can actually get the job done.”

Olivia inched forward. “You are so paranoid, please, list--”

“Save your excuses, Olivia,” Veronica grumbled as she slid the daggers she annexed into her own custody through her belt. “Stay out of my way, stay out of trouble. In fact, maybe you should stay here. I’ll come get you when...well, when I have the time.”

Olivia’s heart cracked and bent out of shape watching as Veronica ran her fingers through her hair, adjusting herself after such an unnecessary kerfuffle. She couldn’t believe the way she was composing herself, as if she had choreographed it, even the part she did not expect in finding Olivia here.

“You will get yourself killed, and you will have no one to blame but yourself,” Olivia concluded harshly, rubbing her arm that felt strained from having dueled with her without proper preparation.

Veronica smiled, shaking her head as she turned for the door. “If I do, Olivia, at least you will know then that even when your little high society forsakes you, you still stand to live longer than some of us even get to dream of. Stay here, or else.”

“Or else, what? We have already established that you would never kill me.”  


“Or else you will have no back up. I will leave you to fend for yourself, and no one will be there to fix your messes or run after you like Theia did. You know you are useless on your own, even with your matchstick palms,” Veronica argued, pointing towards Olivia’s hand at her side, “now do as I say. If you stay here, I’ll make sure no one comes close. But that is my limit with you and your foolishness!”

Olivia wanted to continue pushing, but Veronica had taken care to stab her in every kind of way she could with her words. After all she had done, all she had endured to be there, this was the reception she was given. Lowering her chin and stepping to the side, she gave her nonverbal concession, shame brewing in her.

“Good girl,” Veronica said, continuing on to the door. “I’m going to go while it still seems quiet out there. Keep your mouth shut and your ass in here with the rest of the finery.”

And just like that, Ro was gone, slipped out through the door like a cat out for its morning prey. In her absence, the rage grew. How dare she tell her off, tell her when and where to be like a child? Olivia had always worried Veronica was secretly resentful or jealous; contrary to her argument, she knew more than she let on. But it was never about being third wheel to Theia and Veronica’s twisted love story. Friendship was friendship, or at least, she thought she knew what it was. Now it was helplessly distorted and misconstrued. Reality became untrustworthy, all her memories called into question.

She could have remained in that pottery closet, and contemplated the ramifications of her dissonance. She could have obeyed. She could have listened to her friend who clearly had more to lose than just being the “hero.” Her friend who had cracked beyond all reason, so much so that she would draw daggers on her own loved one. Even for someone like Veronica who had little experience with genuine human relationships unmarred by dysfunction, that was a curveball.

But, she didn’t play along. She did not make the choice to obey as she had spent her life practicing. Disobedience. It was what had gotten her there, and it was what was going to get her out. That was what compelled her to leave the pantry, to sneak and slither down the corridor that she was dragged down. The dusk-filled halls could provide more cover than in broad daylight, she would just have to be careful. If Theia was anywhere, she would be there she was needed. Always where she was needed. And so she went in towards the heart of the Temple, deeper and deeper, onwards and upwards, until she hear yelling. A woman’s voice, broken as if she were yelling down a cave.

It was the sound she would follow that would change her life forever.

\--

Absorbing the last of her thieved memories into her soul, Olivia fell onto her knee surrounded by everyone else. Splashing in the putrid, flooded ground, she gasped a deep breath of desperate air into her lungs that felt made of stone. The Wardens, the Divine, and him. That monster. The orb that found its way into her hand, burning every inch of her body as if it would consume her. Oh, but it spared her, only at the expense of an entire, age-old, sacrosanct Temple.

Her vision was all white light at first, but eventually it gave way to colors, shapes, and shadows. People began to talk, to claim things about the images she had just projected. For a second Olivia felt incredibly vulnerable even with the priorities they all carried together that would make her personal life little more than minuta. The memories that had fallen into place as the precursor to the orb and the ritual she interrupted, those had earth-shattering ramifications. If they had seen anything else, no one was talking about it -- it was all about the Divine, all about the Wardens and their betrayal. Bickering ensued over their victimization, now more disputable than ever.

From over her left shoulder, she sensed someone draw near. It was the Seeker, standing at her side, quiet whilst the Warden Stroud and Hawke argued. Olivia exhaled pitifully, closing her eyes to find some means of brief escape but only seeing Veronica’s face in the dark. The person who shaped her fate, made her walk the path of a doomed heroine believed to be Andraste’s Chosen. Now she knew, even if she had never believed in such a thing before in the first place, that her path was one of horrific accident. There would be no escape or relief from the multiplicities of her thoughts. The only thing that was left to be done was to continue forward.

Rising to her feet, she turned and looked back at her friend. They both exchanged gazes of fatigue, Cassandra for once not the first one to bring order to in-fighting. The background noise of passionate voices was aggravating the Inquisitor with each second that passed by.

“Enough, everyone,” she finally intervened. “We have a task at hand, and that is surviving.” She then cut through Hawke and Stroud, who had stood face-to-face with chests puffed and words steeled. Pushing them both back from each other with her arms, she found the Divine standing on the rock expectantly.

She looked the being dead in those glassy eyes. “It was you.”

The Divine came around to face her, and she gave a frown.

Olivia continued. “They thought me sent by Andraste, Chosen by some other-wordly fortune, but it was you! The Divine was the woman behind me all along...before she...before you...died.”

The being’s chin lowered a bit. “...Yes.”

Stroud turned away from Hawke, then, and stepped closer to where the Inquisitor and Divine spirit stood. “So this creature is simply a spirit?”

“I think we’ve gathered that, Warden,” Hawke was quick to criticize.

Olivia looked back at them, a light, careful scowl on her face, before returning her attention to the being. “You...she…”

“I am sorry if I am not what you expected,” she interrupted, giving one last sorrowful look before her eyes began to burn a golden orange hue. The rest of her shape followed suit, her robes and human form melting away, giving into the luminescence of a more raw form. She levitated into the sky, her shape only remarkable in the retainment of her Divine headdress. As she floated above, the group looked on, speechless.

Olivia took a breath, steadying herself and filing away the emotions that had just overwhelmed her. “Are you...does this mean you are invoking her memory in order to act upon your need for benevolence of some fort?”

“If that is what you wish to use to explain what has happened, then so be it. It is far from a bad one.”

Hawke scoffed under her breath. “What we do know is the real Divine perished at the Temple, thanks to the Grey Wardens.” She looked back across at Stroud, who returned her icey glare with his own.

“As I said, the Grey Wardens responsible for that were under Corypheus’s control. We can discuss this further when we return to Adamant.”

“Oh, yes, where the Inquisition’s army is facing a slew of summoned demons,” Hawke threatened, leaning her shoulder a bit towards him in an act of intimidation.

“How dare you!” Stroud yelled, before continuing on another instigated rant. Another dispute catalyzed, this time everyone wanted to get their two-cents in. Cassandra, Bull, Solas, joining in and giving their advice based on their respective wisdoms. It was so many voices, so many opinions to sort through. Olivia had had enough of echoing noises and needless scorn.

Olivia sighed, turning around and staring both of them down. “Enough! Does this place look like the fertile ground for sensible debate? No! It’s the fucking Fade lair of a nightmare demon! So, if you would like to pull up chairs and begin tallying sins against the world, so be it. But I am leading this group back to the real world. Got it?!”

Well, shit, Hawke’s face seemed to say as she glanced back at the Inquisitor. Stroud stood back, his own attitude calming an inch.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” the Warden conceded. “We can finish this once we have found a way out.”

“Oh,” Hawke said, smirking humorlessly, “I intend to.”

“So help me, Maker’s coddled ass, I will make these daggers seem like sparklers if you two don’t stop trying to battle for the last word.” She waved her hands despondently at them, groaning a bit as she returned on to the path in front of them. “Everyone, let’s go.”

The group hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for smoke to clear. Solas was the first to deem it harmless to follow after her, and then Bull, because if anyone had no reason to be afraid of petite blondes with pyromantic tempers, it would be him. Cassandra followed, but kept near Hawke and Stroud.

“...Does she always threaten with fire?” Hawke asked in a low tone, eyeing the Seeker.

“Not at all,” Cassandra sighed, “whatever would give you that impression?”

\--  
“Cassandra!” Olivia screamed before sprinting across the stone platform. The platform where the nightmare demon confronted them at long last. The Seeker had been fending off two spiders with her shield and greatsword, but had not put them to bed quick enough to be able to fend off the encroaching terror demon from behind her left flank. Cassandra looked up, noticing the oncoming adversary, but instead of turning from her current dispute she merely moved her shield to cover her right shoulder and side.

Olivia exhaled sharply, wielding her staff and her hands in a flurry of summoning energy. Letting out a growl, she summoned a stream of fire, broad and consuming as it launched a current across the distance between them and towards the terror demon beyond the Seeker. Her shield deflected beautifully, and as she plunged her sword once and for all into the last surviving spider in front of her she kept steady.

Maintaining the onslaught, the demon screeching to the heavens in pain, sweat droplets fell from her temples and streamed down her neck, creating ribbons of cleansed complexion through her war paint. Clasping her palm shut in a fist the current stopped. The demon was aflame but not done in.

Running to the Inquisitor’s side, Solas thrust his staff in the air, spinning it betwixt his fingers as he summoned an ice casing enchantment. He grunted low as he worked his skill, and at once the demon became consumed in ice inch-for-inch, suspended in time. After a breath, the figure burst into frost and ice shards, leaving no trace of the demon left to speak of.

Breathing hard, Olivia slouched and put her hands on her knees, hunching forward. That was the last conjured creature the nightmare demon had in its arsenal, and they knew it by the sounds of his wailing in the sky. Hanging her head, she felt Solas place a hand on her shoulder.

“Inquisitor, we must hurry.”

She nodded once, taking another deep inhale as she rose upright, looking around at everyone who managed to survive. With all bodies accounted for, she set her heart and mind on the path before them. As they ran, it became clear that there would be one last, near-impossible obstacle for the Inquisitor, Hawke, and Warden, as the rest of the allies made it to the mouth of the rift.

The three of them skidded to a stop as the monster, almost tall and wide enough to block out the sky above their heads completely, pulsated and growled with ferocity. Across the distance, Olivia saw Solas and Cassandra stop to look back, and Cassandra’s face had turned. She went for her sword grip at her belt, stepping back towards the fray. Olivia shook her head, and her eyes went to Solas, who immediately reached and grabbed the Seeker by the shoulder. She shirked him off at first, determined and stubborn.

Olivia groaned with dread. “Go!” she yelled at them, grabbing her staff from over her shoulder. As if adhering to command, Solas grabbed the Seeker again, this time pulling her through with him. The last thing Olivia saw was the look of betrayal on Cassandra’s face as she was taken back against her will. In that moment, their fears and secret, permeating anxieties about the frailty of their mutual existence in this life became realized.

“Inquisitor!” Hawke called her attention.

“We need to clear a path!” Stroud added as they came together in a trifecta of shitty luck.

“Go! I’ll cover you,” Hawke insisted, going faster than Olivia’s inner processing could handle. Widening her stance and looking up upon the monster, her heart almost seemed ready to beat out of her chest. Her grip on her staff was ironclad, her knuckles as white and calloused underneath dried stains of dirt and blood.

Stroud continued to put up a fight, in true Warden tradition. “No. You were right, the Grey Wardens caused this, a Warden must--”

“A Warden must help them rebuild! That is your job! Corypheus is mine.”

Hawke’s claim was hard to hear. It was so sure, so ready as she was to fall then with everything at stake. Olivia was awestruck by it, all the while the heroism Stroud was ready to display reminded her of the stories of old Chevaliers in her childhood. This place, this dimension, was nothing but a breeding ground for sullied hopes and now, sacrifice.

She gazed up at the being that sniveled and festered like a walking wound, its hide and scrambling limbs like an insect. In that moment, she knew a choice was to be made, and she would have to do it. She closed her eyes for a brief breath, and stilled herself for another decision no human being should ever have to make.

“...Stroud…” she muttered, lowering her staff and looking back at him over her shoulder.

Looking back at her, he gave a single bow of his head. “Inquisitor, it has been an honor.”

An honor, we shall see in the end, she cursed to herself. An honor to be forced to die by your association with me. This could not be all that she could do. Reaching for one of her blades and blowing on it until the blade caught fire, she turned back towards the path.

“I will cover you as long as I can, until the end. Hawke, you need to run for it,” she said, rolling her shoulders back.

“Inquisitor, no, this--”

“That wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command. Go, now!” she yelled, waving her arm forward.

Hawke took one last look at Stroud, nodding once in goodbye, before obeying reluctantly. Sprinting out with her own staff in hand, at the ready, Olivia flanked her several yards behind. She slowed, feeling the energy of Stroud’s exertions at her back as he swung and diced through the flesh of the monster, a roaring and aching scream consuming the air around them. If there was any chance of having Stroud be able to go back on his word, she would provide it. Hawke reached the rift, though she pivoted around instead, enchanting shots of fire and lightning currents at the enemy. Olivia ducked and covered through multiple arms swooping and swinging for her, most bigger than her entire body mass. She was little more than halfway to the opening. The monster had begun to overwhelm her even with Hawke’s assistance and Stroud at her back.

“Inquisitor, you need to escape!” the Warden shouted, “do not let this be the end!”  
Olivia couldn’t be reasoned with, and it was growing increasingly more apparent the more she dug her heels in. Setting off glyphs, enchanting her blade and cutting into the monster’s dangling flesh that crossed her path, plunging her staff blade in to clear the way only to linger. She was providing backup to someone when backup was needed.

And then, her impulsivity was punished. For, out of her periphery, one of the creature’s legs came hurling at her, and took her out faster than she could dodge or block. Or, at least, that is what could be assumed from her senses before everything went to black. Where there was pain and anguish, there was nothing. No light, no time, no echo. Just peace brought by the stupidity of would-be selflessness.

Until, there was more.


	47. Rite of Precession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia 'wakes up' in both unexpected surroundings and company after having risked her life helping to fend off the nightmare demon. Secrets of her past and her ancestral line unfold in an episode that could be hallucination, Fade-manipulated dreaming, or both. But, an encounter with a well-meaning, if not intimidating presence, invites her to question everything she knows about her place in the world.

It is said that Orlesians of noble birth need not bloody their hands unnecessarily, for they are born with them pre-stained by the sins of their forebears. Their lineage is genocide, after all. That is why they wear such expensive and thick gloves even in the heat of the day: their pristine and soft palms may feel like the most seductive touch one could provide, but if one merely opened their eyes, they would see it came with a price happily paid by those most willing to spend with the lives and virtues of others.

But, such urban curses were the stuff of drinking games, and not history. And as the Inquisitor came to consciousness, whether or not the sins of those who came before her would amount to the decision of where her soul was to go in the afterlife seemed trivial.

First, there was cold. A cold, unyielding ground beneath her body, sprawled out like a dinner platter on a banquet hall. Her senses came back almost one-by-one, like slipping into her body like the trappings of an escaped soul. First the touch, and then the sounds: the sensation of being somewhere large and cavernous, but quiet like a tomb. Eventually, the last one became sight, as she opened her eyes to look up at a tall Cathedral-like vaulted ceiling, decayed as if in ruin.

When she dared to move her limbs, first with her hand, the weight of her armor was nonexistent. Instead, skin was bare, unbound by metal or hide. Placing her hand across her abdomen, she felt soft silk.

This would be no way for a leader of war to be kept in healing, in the mountains, injured and weak. This was a way to dress a body to be burned.

Furrowing her brow, she reached and rubbed her forehead. For having been dogpiled by a heinous monster, her muscles did not ache like it. Perhaps the healers had found something potent enough to--

“Ah, you awaken.”

Nope, no healers. More antics. More impossible shit. Wonderful.

Olivia jerked upwards, looking around at the Hall. She was placed atop a platform wide enough for a body, as if that was what it was intended for. An altar, a burial rite, a place to embalm. Across where she lay and against the wall were tables long unused, dusted and broken under their own weight. Candles on the ground, some melted, others unburnt entirely. On either end were stairs, shallow and decorated in the railing like Orlesian architecture, but too simple for her to be certain. Beyond their reach was a apparently endless hall, unlit and uninviting, cobblestones on the floor and no rugs or frames on the walls to make it homey. This place had long been abandoned, so why were there voices?

The dress she wore was indeed silken, with long trumpet sleeves, details that became clear as she slid onto her hip overlooking the expansive room with an unknown end.. The color was a deep green, one of her least favorite, but also one of the most unavoidable colors in an Imperial wardrobe. Her hair was also down, pulled out of her face, but combed and washed.

“Who are you? Show yourself!” she insisted aloud. Though, her voice did not echo as she expected it to.

“Quiet, love. You’ll stir things.” A voice, a woman’s voice, intimate and over her shoulder.

Olivia flinched, whirling around to look behind her, but seeing nothing.

“Enough with these Fade tricks, demon, show yourself so that I may cast you out of my hair,” she cursed, sliding her legs over the edge of the rock and landing on her bare feet.

In the corner of the wide second level there was a corner shadowed and opaque in its darkness. From its depths, a warm, endeared chuckle echoed. It continued, enveloping the hall as if a ripple in water. It shook through Olivia’s body, unsettling her. She had known the tests of demons before, and her Harrowing was not exactly a easy ritual to endure. But this, this was more intricate than anything she had ever seen. The staging, the details, the approach of the presence, whoever it was.

“You are so beautiful. You look just like she did, I can see it in the nose and the shoulders. You are strong.”  


Olivia’s chest began to heave up and down, her panic setting in. “What are you talking about? I have no idea who you are, nor you me!” Her eyes became lit, as did her palms, as circuits of firelight orbited them preparing for self-defense. “Show yourself before I do it for you,” she glared at the corner, ready to lit up the entire place like a stick of explosive.

“Hm, and her tenaciousness, might I add,” the voice continued unbothered.

“I give you until the count of three. One, two--”

“Silence!” the voice reverberated, voluminous as it was commanding. In the blink of an eye, Olivia’s palms went out, leaving only her eyes aflame with potential. She held her hands out in front of her, palms facing up, a look of horror on her face. Demons could do much, but could they absolve a Mage of their own magic like that before possession set in? Not that she knew of. The implications of that fact immediately terrified her.

“W-what are...what is this?!” she asked angrily, teeth clenched, “who are you!?”

Another, more sinister and breathy chuckle, only this time paired with footfalls. Olivia straightened up, backing towards the platform she had been mounted on until it collided with the side of her hip.

A gown skirt became visible, crossing the threshold of the shadow. The skirt, and then the hips, and then the chest, and then the shoulders. The gown was simple, deep red and long-sleeve like robes. The woman’s face was round, pristine, and olive-toned. But it was her hair, her glowing blonde hair tucked back in a bun, the same array of flaxen, brown, and honey that Olivia had known in her family since she was born.

“Tell me daughter, as you have taken on many familial traits: did your parents ever tell you where you inherited those eyes?”

Before Olivia could respond, the woman looked up and opened her eyes, and the sight took all the breath out of Olivia’s chest quicker than any punch or shove from a shield. For, in their color, was the same glowing and emanating gold that she had come to know in her own reflection. Eyes she had never seen in another relative, or indeed, few other Mages. They were always darker or lighter, less hazel and more yellow. No one equaled them. Not until now.

Her body froze, hand gripping the flat stone. “You...you...what kind of demon’s machination is this?”

“I am no demon, Olivia.”

“I just encountered a manifestation of the dead Divine, and you think that answer satisfies me?”

“Hm,” the woman smirked, stepping forward with hands going to her hips, “you do not wait for manners to begin your argument. Good, that is a practical apprehension of time.”

“Don’t come any closer,” Olivia warned, stepping back but placing a hand in front of her. “I want no part of whatever this is. You are trying to seduce me, convince me of some belonging so that you may overtake me.”

The woman halted as she was told, and tilted her head. The movement of her neck made the faint shine of her necklace glimmer against her skin. She looked puzzled, but unphased.

“Olivia, I wish to take nothing from you. I have come to give, in fact, if you would only humor me. You know so little about your life, what is intended for you. It has been eclipsed, like the sun, by that boon in your hand.”

Olivia’s left hand came around, and she held it to her stomach. “My anchor is of no concern to--Ahh!” she cringed, keeling down under her as she bent towards the ground. The anchor was surging and riling in pain, its light popping out from it as if she were near a rift to be closed.

The woman grinned sorely but stayed in place, her eyes diligently on the anchor. A moment passed, and as quickly as the pain appeared, it waned. Olivia fell to her knee, holding her left hand out and staring at it as the light receded back into the center of it.

“How...how did you do that?” she breathed, a bit of whining in her tone.

“I did nothing. I merely challenged the anchor’s place in your body, and it rebuked me. It is not of our strain of ability, as I am sure your elven compatriots have informed you. Magic has ego, my love.”

Olivia inhaled, mustering the strength in recovering from the tantrum of power. She stared back at the woman and rose to her feet, leaning on the platform for strength. “What do you mean, “our strain of ability”? You are nothing like me, you are not a human, you are not a Ma--”

“You do not get to talk to me of what I am!” the woman commanded, the golden glow of her irises expanding, consuming the whites in her eyes. “You are in my dwelling of my own invitation because you must know the truth. You will listen, and here the reality of your existence, or you will not survive!” an echo of other voices began to seep through her tone as she came closer, not heeding any more of Olivia’s need for space.

Olivia’s eyes widened. She stood her ground, partly out of engrossing fear, and the other her dignity. What little of it was left, anyway. Wherever she was, whatever had become of her, life seemed far away.

“What is it you would have me do, then,” she grumbled, “have tea and talk politics?”

The woman quieted, her aura de-escalating in its overbearance like an ocean tide. She smiled softly, rolling up her heavy sleeves, fabric gathering at the crooks of her elbows.

“Something to those ends. Though, you will not find tea in this vicinity. Come with me, and I will show you just what it is.”

“What makes you think I would consent to following you? You could have me filleted at the end of this, for all I know…” Olivia watched as the woman walked towards the stairs behind her, the shadow seeming to bend and make way for her presence. It was unlike any magic she had seen -- no Circle tutor would flaunt something like that in front of Apprentices, the power to influence shadows be virtue of simply standing there.

The woman laughed softly and looked back over her shoulder, hand clutching the stair rail. “My love, if I wanted you filleted, I need only breath in a spoonful of air. Come, there is not much time.”

For a moment, Olivia stood still. It could prove to be the worst mistake of her existence, following after this...this thing, whatever it was. Spirit, demon, anomaly of some sort. But something inside her, something that demanded a way forward when all else seemed bleak, said to go. If anything, to decipher a way to escape, or a way to rest in peace. Whichever came first would remain to be seen.

\--

Alright, so, the Temple of Sacred Ashes was a pain in the ass, but even its memory felt like an easy go in comparison to the darkness Olivia had to wade through in the tall halls of wherever it was she had been brought. Stone floors, unevenly laid, dirt and grass growing in the cracks of its disheveled state. The walls were reminiscent of those belonging to a fortress, but they were too coarse and crude to determine where and for what reason. All the while, Olivia’s guide did not light any torches or carry any light for them to see. She simply knew, and walked as if perfectly comfortable.

Walking closely by her revealed more details Olivia had not gotten the chance to appraise when she first saw her. For one, she was tall -- almost like the Qunari. Her frame though was proportional to that of a human, as if she had simply been stretched and expanded like a soaked sponge from the stature of a regular woman. Her hair was intricately twisted and tied in its updo, thick and with a subtle frizz to it. She smelled, too: light incense, and its smoke. Demons had a sulfuric odor to them that was unavoidable, especially if one was a mere several feet from them.

Eventually the came to a pair of tall, curved doors. The locking mechanism was old and almost primal, a simple levy. Olivia stood by at the woman waved her hand, dismantling it easily and pushing the doors open in unison like in a ceremony of some sort. They roared through the hall with their sounds, causing the surrounding infrastructure to vibrate.

“This way,” she said warmly, stepping through.

Olivia hung back a bit, but she did as she was told. Coming inside, she found she was brought into another Hall of some sort. It was smaller, less overwhelming, but dark. She could only see about halfway down before the rest of the space was consumed in black.

“Now you will know why you were brought here,” the woman said, stepping back to give Olivia the floor. “You must conjure the embers that lay in the corners of your being, and cast them into the open.”

“But how...how does that work?” Olivia asked, glancing at her with eyes narrowed.

The woman smiled, touching her fingertips to each other in front of her stomach. “The residue of your power, that which has remained instilled in you throughout your years of practice and exertion. You must dig deep, and breathe it from your lungs. Picture it in your mind, and then release.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Olivia admitted, scanning the room. The walls, long and intimidating in their height, looked like they had been carved into, though whether it was from aging or intentional hands, the vines of greenery and leaves concealed.

“Haven’t you ever wondered why you cannot sleep? Why your nightmares are so egregious, that you would rather stay awake to the point of fainting than rest?”

“How do you know of my nightmares?!” Olivia demanded with a flared urgency, stepping to the side. “Are you responsible for my torment?”

The woman frowned. “It is more complex than that, love. To find out, you must do this. It will all make sense, I promise.”

They stared at one another, Olivia struggling to convince herself of either choice to run or play along. But, she had come this far, and consented to as much in spite of the danger it may bring. The woman had a short temper, but then again, so did she; perhaps there was some relation after all that needed to be found out.

Taking her place once more at the center of the room’s mouth, Olivia looked around one last time before closing her eyes. Doing her best with little to no material or experience with such a ritual, she held her hands parallel to one another in front of her, horizontally aligned. She went searching inside herself, digging and sifting through the core of her entangled soul. Her mana, confused and disconcerted, put up a fight at first. It had been too long since she had connected to it, meditated on its prowess. The battle and the violence had left her body tired and carnal. But, with persistence, she found her mind going in even deeper than that -- something she thought previously impossible. There, in the darkness and the untouched, there was heat in her throat. This place was warm, crackling, unstable. But it gave into her will.

With one difficult inhale that burned in her bones, she opened her eyes and let out a sharp, heavy, and long-winded breath. To her astonishment, her breath was smoke. In expanded beyond the possible capacity of her lungs, surging forward down the middle of the hall, embers billowing throughout it. The vines and overgrowth gave way, burning and bending off the walls. Through the subtle light of her breath, she discovered the existence of mounted torches along them, and they illuminated all at the same time.

However, they were not the main attraction. As Olivia ran out of breath, the smoke collapsed onto the ground and seemed to race for the walls, splashing against them and bracing into the stone. As the clouded air soaked into the surroundings, the carvings lit up: their light flickering and surging like that of fire glyphs she could enchant. What once was an unfortunate and neglected room became a place of wonder.

Olivia gazed back at the woman, who looked on with pride.

“Go,” the woman said, “start at the left-hand-side.”

Brows raised and mouth open in awe, Olivia swallowed pitifully; the spell had dried out her mouth, making her lips stick against her teeth. Clinging with sweaty fingers against her dress she made her way across the floor to the left side, to the first section of the wall bordered by inlaid columns with torches. In a new angle of vision the glyph carvings took shapes, and through their flickering she could single out three figures that had head and shoulders like people. They stood by one another, each having one limb stretched up towards the sky above them, with what looked like carvings of air or some form of matter soaring upwards.

“These carvings…” she deliberated out loud, “they look like the wall paintings in some of our oldest buildings and hallowed ruins in Orlais...how is it they are enchanted?”

The woman began walking towards her, catching up slowly with hands gathered at her back. “Some artists have different tools of conveying images, my love.”

“Artists, or Mages?” Olivia asked further, stepping away from the wall in order to make room for her.

“Who is to say they cannot be both? Interchangeable, in fact.”

“Well, for starters, the Templars, the Seekers, the Circles, even…?”

The woman grinned smartly, a brow lifted. “Orders who can all can trace their inception back to a single document, one which was forged around the era when these carvings were still prolific in the structures of our ancestors’ strongholds and homes.”

Olivia tilted her head, eyes widening. “...the...the Nevarran Accord…”

“Precisely, my love.”  


“But, that would be ludicrous! The Accord was signed eight centuries ago, during the Divine Age, during the rule of--”

“Emperor Kordillius Drakon I, yes.”

Olivia huffed air in disbelief, hand going to her stomach and laying flat across it. “These carvings cannot be from that era, not in this shape, not...not undisturbed…”

“History is not so shackled to the years as our lives are, Olivia. Carvings and memories can be immortalized where our breathing falls short. What this world preserves and destroys is more nuanced than even you know. But I digress, this mural, this image, is of the inception of that which is tethered to you. The binding that you have walked with, indeed, resurrected, but never knew.”

“What...and what is that, exactly?”

The woman grinned, exhaling through her nose. She turned to the wall, and reached a hand onto it, pressing her fingers against the rock.

“It began, as you so precariously pointed out, with the Nevarran Accord. The Blight had consumed Thedas in war. The Emperor enlisted the help of Mages, removing limitations on their liberties in order to fight it.” She removed her hand, eyes scanning upwards incrementally. “When the Accord was signed, the Mages who had commanded and lead their forces for years conceded to the creation of the Seekers of Truth and the Templar Order, as well as the Circles of Magi. The Inquisition’s influence had born two of the most consequential powers in Thedas, and only by virtue of the Mage’s fortitude in alliance with the Empire did the they rise with them. While a good number coalesced, some who had risen in the ranks throughout the prior decade foresaw the weight of this decision, and believed there had to be some form of prudence.”

Olivia’s jaw clenched as her eyes honed on the three figures standing together, their faces and bodies homogenous in shape.

The woman continued, clasping her hands together. “Emrys, one of the few Mages who served in the Inquisition’s alliances. He was one of the only known and practiced Mages to rise to authority, given the movement’s siege on Mages and cultists. He was a voice of temperance, of reason. His balanced approach gained him connections and allies who would later serve the Orders -- this made him well-connected. The second was Serren, a warrior by heart and by trade, a battlemage who served in the forces and commanded before the Accord was struck, at which point she resigned with honors and joined Emrys. The third, and youngest, was Isolda: a scholar from Nevarra, an upstart, she was one of the few Mages to rise as an advisor and liaison force out of the dysfunction of her home nation’s politics. She was fair, independent-minded. Isolda is your ancestor, the woman who’s magic flows through you now.”

Olivia’s breath shuddered. It all appeared like some fringe conspiracy theory, like the groups she learned about after becoming Inquisitor who preyed upon the fears of disastrous times. And that was if this was all true, and not some hallucination.

“How do you know this? Our familial lines do not go back this far, not even close,” she contended, her voice cracking.

The woman chuckled, hand going to her chin and rubbing with her fingertips. “You think this story is defined by what has been kept in a ledger, Olivia? This is not the truth of bureaucracy, but of spirit. Of blood.”

“Then...what did they do? And why is there no memory of it in the histories?”

“Because they chose to ensure it. These three,” she said, looking back at the wall, “they understood that the Orders and the Chantry would jockey for an unprecedented amount of power, and their institutionalized jurisdiction would only embolden them. Mages needed someone, needed something, unbound by the duties of the Accord, by the false promise of political transparency that the Templars and Seekers would not provide. They resigned from their posts, and vanished.”

“Vanished? To do what?”

“To survey the domain that zealous power loves most, like a faithful mistress: the shadows and back rooms of every building in the Empire.”

“...They became spies?”

“In a way, yes. But their pursuits were not contracted by anyone. The information they dealt with was on their own volition and judgment. Here, come,” she beckoned, a hand touching Olivia by the elbow and bringing her with her to the second section of the wall. There, awaiting them, was a image of a round table with many more figures than just three, hard to number in the crudeness of the carving, but stark enough.

“They called themselves Whispers: Mages who did not prescribe to the Circles, but served the need for due diligence. The three were the head and heart, but they made sparse alliances with others who would benefit their ever-growing limbs. Serren and Isolda often played that they were Sirens, voices in the dark that would entice honesty from the reservoirs of the corrupt, evening the playing field. But, for as long as the original three lived, no one knew either moniker outside their closed ranks.”

“There is no trace of Whispers in any book I have read in either the Circle or otherwise. How can that be? The Circles never outed them?”

“They were, on several occasions. But, a Whisper always dies with itself, it never lets harm spread past where it has impressed.”

“Then why…”  


“Olivia, you must give me the chance to explain..”

The woman guided her to the third section, the last on left-hand side. The scene was a single knife, broad like a sword blade, but with multiple hands on the grip. They looked bent and strained, as if vying for the grip of a small dagger. Her heart sank instinctively, as if such a sight was emblematic of something bad, something foreboding within her inner self.

“Isolda was the last surviving member of the original triumvirate, and in the years before her death she built the Whispers up substantially. She also bent the rules she and her friends had set, and leaned into connections with the Orders and the Empire’s government. Isolda saw an opportunity to expand the Whispers’ ability to hold those in power accountable for the ways they played with the liberties of Mages. She recruited more numbers than they had ever had. She never aimed high, never chose high-ranking officials. Instead, she turned her eyes to the young, the middle-of-the-road people who had room to grow and showed promise. Always Mages. By the time she died, several years after the Emperor, there were limbs in every major human governing body across southern Thedas, save the Imperium.”

They made their way to the right side, where instead of electing to visit every individual piece, the woman placed a hand on Olivia’s shoulder to invite her to look upon them all at once. The first was a row of banners and horses, marching by the looks of their picked-up-hooves. The second, a chalice, simple but shining. The third, however, was the most disturbing: a person sitting on what looked to be a thrown, their eyes and mouth carved out, gaping holes where they should have been.

“What did they do?” she asked, suspicious then of the consequences.

The woman kept steady, though, her chin held high.

“Isolda’s daughter, Mercia, took her place a year after her death, but the legacy of handing off the role did not stay thus. There were exchanges of power, dilutions of influence, crisis of identity. The Glory Age, the war with the elves, was nearly a breaking point. Exalted March almost broke the Whispers apart.”

Olivia pulled away from her hold then, mouth agape. “How? What side were they on? They couldn’t...they…”

The woman’s mouth creased with tension. “My love…”

“Oh no, no, no, no. You mean to say that they went through all of that to forge a counterintelligence cause just to play right into the hands of the Empire when it could have prevented catastrophe?! What was the point of being anti-Chantry when...when you cave when it would have mattered most?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed sadly, but she did not turn from her. “It is said the then leader, Solstina, was beseeched by her ties to her family. For as much as she had committed to rectifying the sins of Empire and conquest, she could not carry the weight. By the time Isolda’s descendant, Vera, rose to take her place at the helm a few years after the war ended, half of the Whispers had either disappeared, or resigned after attempted assassinations on Solstina’s life. Vera held the movement together with an iron fist for the next thirty years, as was often needed by your predecessors in times of adversity.”

“How can you simply say that? They...they conspired in genocide! You say they brought themselves together for justice!”

“War drenches the feet of both victims and assailants in blood, Olivia, and blood makes everything appear the same color. You must not pass judgment before you know the full picture.”

“And how exactly am I to know that? These carvings, these...notches in stone?! Will they not only shine, but speak? Perhaps sing and dance?!”

“Olivia!” the woman scolded, “For better or for worse, our destinies are tied to Empire. Even you cannot deny it. Are you to stand on a false pedestal and sneer, or are you to learn and be enabled to take your place?!”

“Take my place?! You think I have the time to ‘take’ my place? In case you didn’t know I am occupied at the moment preventing the apocalypse! Who even are you supposed to be, if not Isolda, or Mercia, or any of the leaders who could explain this circus?”

The woman took a breath and her posture grew rigid. Her hands fell to her sides, hands in soft fists.

“The truth of who I am supposed to be is like all this history you demand: not here, but elsewhere. There are reasons you are who you are: why you were drawn to pyromancy, why you battle so fiercely, why your skill as a tactician and strategist go beyond your years. You must find out, and that is why I am here: to call upon Isolda’s descendants in accordance with her wishes.”

“What do you mean by her wishes?”

“Olivia...there is...there is more to magic than you can imagine, than your entire generation can. Knowledge and bonds lost to the centuries, erased and buried. Yet you are connected to it, and it is your duty, your birthright, to know.”  


Olivia shook her head, hands wading out to her sides. “So, then, where can I find said knowledge, if it is real and not some fabrication of my mind’s eye? Are you to send me on a scavenger hunt with all the free time I definitely do not have?”

“Patience! There are traces of their influences, their work with invisible hands. You must go to the Capitol, find the Imperial archives. There, you will find us looking back at you through the veneer of events thought independent of outside forces.”

“Do you earnestly believe that possible, with me being who I am?”

The woman folded her arms, unconvinced. “Before you were Inquisitor, you were of our blood. If you survive, that blood will outlive your title.”

“That is a remarkably conservative vote of confidence in my ability to live, considering you summoned my consciousness here for whatever reason.”

The woman sighed, her head turning away for a moment. Even in her beguiling nature, it looked as if she was not even a match for Olivia’s obnoxious wit.

“Because you are depended upon so greatly, I will provide one last clue: my name as it was so in mortal life was Adiann. It is rare in the histories, and for good reason; that will make it a useful indication that you are on the right track. You will find out when you uncover what it is that is meant for you to understand.”

“...Adiann…” Olivia hesitated, her expression softening. “What makes you think I want to be apart of this? Is it even still enduring after all the Ages?”

“That answer will make itself known in due course. For now, you must undertake the responsibility of education, and keep yourself alive. That cannot happen if you are sacrificing yourself in the throngs of the Fade. Venture to the Capitol, find the archives, and you will be surprised how much your intuition can carry you from there.”

Huffing frustrated air through her mouth, Olivia turned away and paced, hands going across her forehead. This was a ridiculous death dream to have. Everyone else could see their lives flashing before their eyes, puppies, beautiful countryside. Why did she have to be stuck with the maniacal theories of an Imperial, Mage counter-culture? Why not puppies?

“Olivia,” the woman said comfortingly, stepping closer after her. “Your existence is a miracle. Isolda’s line has lay dormant, and thought lost to the decades. But, you are here, and you have invoked my stewardship. This is not to be ignored, for it defines your survival.”

The Inquisitor came back around to face Adiann, conflicted in both expression and spirit. “This still does not explain my nightmares.”

Adiann lowered her face, sullenly looking upon the ground as her fingers rubbed and pressed against each other. “Your nightmares...they are exacerbated by your lineage. The Elves are not the only conflict that has impressed upon your ancestors. I can only promise that for now, they will leave you undisturbed. This will only be temporary.”

Olivia frowned. “Why temporary?”

“Because I cannot stem the tide of your inherited conscience, Olivia, even as you are a daughter of my line. Even...even as I have provided and sought after you. My love for you, like my magic, can only go so far. I can see it in your eyes that you still doubt the reality of all this, and I cannot blame you. It is the mark of a good Mage to be skeptical and wary of the ways circumstances reveal themselves at first. Just know that it has taken a great deal to bring you here, throughout all this time.”

On a subliminal cue, the torch lights dimmed to dull, rounded flames. The wall carvings began to fade away, starting from the top as their dormancy worked its way downward. Olivia watched them, turning around in a slow circle, as the faces and impressions all faded away. Only the torches stayed as she returned her eyes to Adiann. Her face, those irises -- even though there was torn emotions scattered in her mind, if she were only to judge the way her expression made her feel, she would completely believe it all word for word.

“So, what happens now?”

Adiann smiled softly and approached her, taking her hands into her own and holding them between their chests. Her touch was warm, heated in the palms but without sweat -- the tell of a fire-favoring Mage. Even with so much dismay and confoundment, she found that she could smile back at her.

“Oh, Olivia,” Adiann cooed, “you are just who I have waited for.” She leaned in more, until their foreheads touched. It was a marvel: even though she had seemed real, skin and bone, touching her and feeling her was surreal. She lowered her eyes, the stress of it all nearly bringing her to tears.

“You are more loved than you know, by more hearts than you can dare imagine.” Adiann pulled away, taking her all in one last time. “For now, we will continue to share you. I will be watching. Now, breathe in, and awaken.”


	48. The Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with the prospect that the Inquisitor could perish from her decisions in the Fade, and the fallout after her emergence from the rift, Cassandra is faced with the consequences of both her actions and inactions with regards to her feelings. The night following the siege proves a test in both patience and faith for the Seeker while the Inquisitor struggles to stay alive.

_"Your Inquisitor is a fraud, Cassandra. Yet more evidence there is no Maker, that all your 'faith' has been for naught."_

\--

She could have thrown Solas across the yard with her bare arm for what he did, if she had let her temper go unchecked. She would later admonish herself for having such an instinct; he only did as what any soldier, any battle ally, would have done given the logics of the situation. Alas, at the time, the only thing that prevailed over her anger was her sense of duty, her need to rectify the situation before it was too late. She would re-enter the rift. She would go back. She would help her. Her hand was on her sword, she was ready, she had everything she needed. Everything would be okay if she could just go, if she could be at her side like she always was before. The three soldiers and Bull, who held her back as she let out a slew of urgent, empty commands at them, had other plans.

“The Inquisitor needs help! I must go back!” she continued to insist, arms across her chest and waist, clinging to her. After all that fight, all that exhausting work, she still had it in her to resist the obstacles in between her and what she felt she needed to do. Feuling her was her convictions, her habits, her years of battle experience -- and the selfless and hopeless look in Olivia’s eyes she saw right before Solas took her through.

“Seeker, she can handle herself, she’s got back up,” Bull warned as he held onto her shield attached to her back, “don’t make it harder for her to get out of it!”

They were all mad. They had to be. They didn’t know they had promised. They didn’t know she had promised her. She had back up, but it wasn’t the back up she could provide. They had each other’s back; the young promise was already sacrosanct. No one knew how critical it was that she uphold it, no one knew just how fast her heart was racing almost to the point of giving out under the weight of its own regrets.

They didn’t know. She didn’t know. She needed to know, and what if she never got the chance to? What would happen to the Inquisition without its leader, without the one who led the force against the rifts and the demons that plagued the world? Did she bring this upon the Inquisitor, was this the result of her own actions that she would have to live with forever?

The pragmatics of war and battle made little room for one to pity themselves like that in the middle of conflict. The Inquisition would not lose more people than it had to, and that rule was especially paramount when it came to the lives of the inner circle, and the woman who named the Inquisition and the Inquisitor. She mattered, she was needed. But what was she supposed to do when one of the defining aspects of that need was on the other side of the rift, still in the Fade, doing Maker-only-knows what to endanger her life in the face of that monster?

Her straggling, half-breathed prayers were answered when after a few minutes, Hawke came collapsing out of the rift with the Inquisitor’s body slung over her shoulder. When they reached the other side, Olivia fell from her grip onto the stone ground, rolling onto her back like a sack of vegetables. The crowd of surrounding troops still fighting the last surviving demons gasped and stepped away, watching from their periphery as Hawke furiously scrambled to her knees, breathing heavy with her staff in her hand.

Cassandra shoved the arms of every person holding her back off of her, and took off running. Devastating that they would then agree to let her go when it was to perhaps come upon the Inquisitor’s body, but she wouldn’t let them stop her now. Coming to Olivia’s left-hand-side where the laid, she crouched down, planting a knee on the floor.

“Gah! Inq...Inquisitor!” Hawke exclaimed in a stolen, full breath in pain, scrambling over to the Inquisitor's other side.

Olivia’s eyes rolled in and out of the corners of her eyelids, as if she were convulsing, but her body was quiet and her breathing steady if not barely there. At Hawke’s invocation of her name, she reached her left hand a mere foot above her bloodied, armored torso, and rotated her wrist ever-so-carefully. It was one last exertion of coherent strength: the rift cracked and wailed, coming undone. The remaining demons roared and dissolved into green dust and air, vacuumed into the pull of the collapsing rift that had liberated them. In a snap, the opening closed for good.

Cassandra and Hawke watched it disappear, the sound of Olivia’s hand collapsing against her metalled body calling their attention back to the woman who was responsible for its resolution. Troops started to gather, keeping a few yards distance from the three in the middle of the courtyard. The hesitant cheers at the defeat of the demons had hushed quickly at the revelation that their leader seemed to be suspended between life and death. Through the crowds of some three dozen soldiers and Wardens, Solas, Bull, and Dorian who had managed his way up from the front lines pulled through to stand at the inner rim. The Inquisitor’s eyes continued to roll, her head rocking back and forth. Cassandra grabbed the rim of her breast place, while trying to catch and stabilize her head with the other.

“Hawke, what happened?!” she asked in urgency.

Rocking back onto her hip, the Champion set her staff down and groaned. “She tried to keep Stroud from having to sacrifice himself. She backed him up, we couldn’t convince her otherwise. The monster took her out, I ran out and dragged her back up with me.”

Cassandra glanced her way, the heartbreaking truth of Stroud’s sacrifice for all to hear. As tragic as that was, her mind was focused on the gamble Olivia had made, and perhaps lost, in trying to ensure all three could make it through.

“Inquisitor, can you hear me?” she asked, leaning over her. Nothing, only eyes fluttering closed and shallow breathing. Her face was blackened like she had stuck her face into a fireplace of soot and ash.

No one moved an inch. No one cared to speak. It was the kind of solemn silence that took over a space when witnessing the fall of a leader: mouths ready to say prayers, hearts ready to drop, tears ready to fall. Cassandra could recognize such a forlorn atmosphere and she resented it viscerally. But, as the Inquisitor continued her episode of unresponsiveness, she couldn’t help but be half-convinced that the moment was upon them. She failed, after all. She didn’t do as she promised. It would only be the tragic outcome of such a thing.

Then, Solas again appeared, coming up behind her and settling down onto his knees beside the Inquisitor’s head and shoulder. The wrath she once felt for him had given way to desperation.

“Solas, can she...will she…?” she asked low, still holding onto her.

Solas placed a hand on her forehead, steadying her movements. His face was conservative, observant. For as doting and ridiculous as his gesture seemed, he wasn’t checking for a fever: he was sensing her mana, a force that responded and ebbed with the life inside her body as much as any heartbeat or breathing pair of lungs.

“She’s overexerted, and there is pressure where there should not be,” he said as he withdrew his touch. “She is in grave danger. She needs the Healers at once before her body gives out on itself -- she is relying on her magic to keep her alive, like a conduit.”

Cassandra’s breath quivered a bit out from her lips, and she gazed at Hawke, another Mage, who’s grim expression did not contradict Solas’s insight. The world hung on the strength of a single, simple thread, billowing in the uneven momentum of Olivia’s life. She could almost feel the earth shaking underneath her feet, or was that from her own head? Either way, everything was falling apart, and she was faced with the torment of her worst fear: helplessness.

“There has to be something that can be done,” she asked again, settling onto both knees, not taking her eyes off of her.

Solas breathed through his nose a sharp, subtle breath of air. “She needs to be steadied, or else she will continue to expend energy she will need to stay alive.” He looked back at Cassandra, preemptively concerned about how she would react to what that meant. A moment of subterfuge, before he held his open palm over her mouth, throat, and nose.

“Wait!” Cassandra interrupted, “You are going to make her--”

“She has to, Seeker,” Hawke stopped her, placing a hand on her arm, “she’s doing the Mage equivalent of bleeding out, and we don’t know if she’s not already doing that.”

Cassandra’s eyes went between both their faces, recognizing she was outnumbered. That never stopped her before, but when she watched Olivia struggle more, her rapid and unhelpful breathing sounding exhaustive, she fell back onto her folded legs and let go of her breastplate.  
Solas’s lips pursed, and he put his hand back where it was. This was not the first time he had to direct the triage efforts over a wounded and unconscious Inquisior -- only this time, it seemed the Seeker had a different perspective on what she stood to lose.

“If the anchor has any determination of its own sustainability, perhaps it will see the worth in keeping her alive as well.”

“Anchor or no anchor, she’s gonna need more than one arm’s worth of fight in her,” Hawke groaned, shifting her weight unto one foot but remaining close.

Cassandra had nothing else to say; her words were to the Maker, and no one need provide audience to it. As she made her appeal in her mind, Solas’s hand began to glow a deep purple-blue color, a ball of light forming near the middle of his palm. As it grew and then plateaued in size and shape, Olivia’s stirrings began to lessen, and her mouth became narrower. Her breathing quieted but not before letting out a soft whimper released from her gut into one last ragged breath. Head steadying, a tear fell from the corner of her eye as they closed fully.

“She is alive, Cassandra.”

Solas’s fingers curled after a moment, the light going out. The way he said it was as though he knew everything: why she was so afraid, why he had to to be the one to pull her through, why it was all connected. Or, maybe she was just reading into the compassion in his voice too much.

But Cassandra would do more than worry. She closed her eyes for a brief passing breath, stilling herself before an all-out tantrum erupted from her. Now was not the time. Now is never the time. Fortitude and discipline, those are what weather the storm.

She slid her shin forward, planting her foot underneath her weight. Looking over her shoulder up at Dorian and Bull, both looking somber in their own ways, she stiffened her brow. Summoning the resolve of a warrior who had seen so many comrades and would-be friends fall, she pulled her shoulders back.

“Someone help me carry her! Hurry!”

\--

Every time the Inquisitor was on a horse she was the liveliest person in southern Thedas, and even that was a conservative appraisal. Thus, when the troops who had returned to camp--whether it be for reports, to carry back wounded, or be the wounded themselves--no one could believe their eyes. The frightened rumors were true -- the sparse, panicked words from one or two soldiers who had been in the fortress courtyard when she came through. The only thing that spread quicker than wildfires in dead forests was word of those believed untouchable by death became skin-on-skin with it.

Cassandra appeared neither here nor there, running on the default mindset of a Seeker and Warrior for all intents and purposes. But on the inside, it was nothing but a dare to demand the world go her way for once. Holding the Inquisitor’s deadweight against her chest and shoulders in her own saddle, the image of Olivia’s chestnut mare riderless and being lead in her wake stuck with her in her mind’s eye the entire ride back to camp from the front lines. The mare was intemperate, unbidden to anyone else besides her rider. She was giving the soldier tasked with her handling a run for their money; the echoing of her wailing lingered in the Seeker’s head as all battle sounds did, overwhelming and disastrous.

Once at camp, Cassandra rode to the front of the Inquisitor’s tent, where several people stood at the ready to help, including two Healers. The disruption of the Inquisitor’s arrival was like the calm before a flash flood -- heads turned, people stopped, but the disbelief and denial were still in place. They will find out, if they haven’t already. If they have, it’ll be rumors proven true in the most upsetting way. She doesn’t notice it in the moment, but upon reflection she was thankful the rain let up. It would have been all the more disparaging.

She handed off Olivia first before dismounting, giving her to the hands and strength of four people, who then ushered her inside. The Healers wasted no time in sounding off orders, requests for ingredients and tools to their assistants. Cassandra stayed in the saddle for a moment to catch her breath, but it always seemed inches from her grasp. It is not until the Commander had greeted her, running from wherever he had been kept up, when she zones back in on the present moment after an second’s indulgence.

“Cassandra, what happened?!” he asked, taking hold of her horse’s rein, the animal stepping back and flinching at the assertive energy in Cullen’s grip.

The Seeker once again steels her will, and blinks. Tossing her reins, she dismounts and comes around her horse’s side to meet him.

“Too much to explain here. The priority now is her survival. We need ravens sent off at once to Skyhold that the Inquisitor is compromised.”

Cullen paused, turning over his shoulder as they both hear the flurry of voices, sounds of hitting blunt-force-objects together, though for what reason neither of them can even try to imagine.

“What are her odds?” he asked, his mindset as militaristic and afraid of getting invested as hers is.

“Not good,” she muttered resentfully. “It must not spread too quickly or far that she is in dire condition. The witnesses to what happened will disburse it soon enough. There will have to be a guard in place around her tents. No one goes in or out without permission.”

She already began getting to work peeling off her armor, un-clipping and unbuckling the sides of her breastplate and shoulder guards.

“Of course,” Cullen said, handing off the horse to a subordinate. As the animal was led away both of them stepped closer to the tent opening, though neither were bold enough to directly enter or disturb whatever it is that needs to happen. 

“I assume you were there, as always,” he asks, scanning over behind them for any eavesdropping eyes and ears. Cassandra appreciated his awareness while so much had already transpired in the night to fatigue any good man, but especially him. His words were like a sharp dagger in her side, though, and she did her best to keep her chin high and her eyes focused.

“I was, but not in the way I should have,” she admitted, loosening her breastplate and taking in a generous breath of air at last. It was almost like gasping after having been submerged underwater. Cassandra was never that uncomfortable in armor, but for some reason all she wanted was to rip away everything holding her down, or drown once and for all. It was the in-between kind of dismay, the suspension in agonizing unknown, that disturbed her the most.

The Commander watched as the shadows in the tents hurried, racing around the same spot. He looked like he, too, was masking an inner sort of distress. Though his was not the same sort, to be sure.

“Leliana will not be pleased,” his attempt at nervous small-talk almost as awkward as his attempts to make them when relaxed.

“Cullen,” she replied, “I do not think it matters now what one or two people think of this. This is more consequential, and--”

“I know, Cassandra, I was simply trying to provide distraction for you.”

She shot a caustic look his way. “What gives you the idea that I--”

“Cassandra,” he said her name again, this time twisting his shoulders toward her a bit to make direct eye contact with her. “It’s alright.”

His expression was sore, knowing, in its extended austerity. She looks back at him, meaning to keep up a fight, somehow, someway. Fighting was all she knew to do when the odds seemed stacked. But there was no enemy this time, no adversary she could pin down and challenge for the future. Not unless she wanted to take the mortality of the Inquisitor’s body to task, and it seemed to be doing that just fine on its own.

“It seems so long ago the last time we did this,” he observed, sighing roughly.

“Not for me, Cullen,” she disagreed in a sobered tone, biting the inside of her cheek as she wiped her forehead with her gloved forearm. He peered back at her one last time, and she felt his gaze on her profile, but she did not meet his eyes halfway. Rather than continue debating semantics, she quieted. He remained at her side a few minutes longer, standing vigilant of the front of the tent. The tent that was a microcosm of worldly consequence, as so often happened in times of war.

_I assume you were there, as always, he assumed so willingly. As always._

\--

The commotion lasted for hours, though sitting outside the tent on the ground beside the enclosed opening felt longer than that. The bossing, stressed voices eventually subsided as the Healers’ procedures, whatever they were, progressed into the night and early hours of the dawn. Cassandra had taken to almost anything to pass the time: reciting Chants in her head was the first busying task. When the verses became too repetitive even for her she channeled her old practices of meditation to cope with her inconsistent, flaring emotions. But, even that became old and worn out as time went on. What she wanted most of all was news, anything pertaining to the woman on the other side of the tent hide. She had learned years ago that some prayers, some demands, remained unanswered for reasons she could not understand. Yet this was an unexpected test to her acceptance of that wisdom.

_I should have been there. I should have insisted. I should have been more careful, more vigilant. I should not have run so fast without her by my side -- it was brash, it was cowardly of me. Maker, forgive me for such short-sighted instincts._

But, just as she began to believe herself irrelevant and inappropriate to be waiting outside the Inquisitor’s tent, sitting on the floor like a loyal dog, the news she had been hoping to gain came forward. One of the Healer’s assistants in her Mage apprentice gown game peeking out the tent drape, looking both ways before her eyes caught the Seeker on the ground unexpectedly. She came through and stood outside as Cassandra rushed to her feet, wearing only the lower half off her armor from battle by that point.

“Seeker, my Lady,” the woman greeted, nodding her head in respect.

“Yes, how is she?” Cassandra asked, wasting no time as she fidgeted with her hands.

The woman noticed her mannerisms, but did not let them distract her. There was hesitancy in her, her forehead glittering with perspiration she had not had the chance to wipe away after hours of painstaking work.

“She...the Inquisitor, I mean. She has lost a lot of blood. Two ribs were cracked and one fully broken and threatening to puncture her lungs. And her head is...we think she landed on it in some way, for there is substantial bruising already forming. It is a wonder she is still with us, but by the Maker’s will, she endures.”

As if such things were possible, the world seemed to fall back onto its right side of gravity again. She was still alive, still fighting. Cassandra was not unused to bad news, to horrible news, about comrades failing to survive. But this, this was so much more -- so much more at stake, and so much more to lose. Not just for the cause, though she would deny herself the consideration of anything else outside of that for a while.

Her lips shook as she tried to put together the right words to respond with, after shuffling away the passionate emotions she felt brewing within her.

“Thank you for informing me, the Commander will be relieved to know,” she said at last, after a couple breaths gaining her composure. “When can….when can she take visitors?”

The woman rolled up her gown sleeves, undoubtedly appreciating the chilled air after so much strenuous activity. “We would recommend the Inquisitor has secluded rest under the supervision of Healers for the rest of the night, until we can know for sure whether there are any further complications. After that, we may be able to allow visitors singularly, and with proper precaution.”

“Of course,” Cassandra nodded, taking a step back onto the ball of her foot. As she did, there was a sharp pain in her thigh, and she grimaced against the pain. The Healer intuitively reached a hand towards her, eyes widened in alarm.

“Seeker, have you not been seen by Healers since the battle?” she asked with concern, her chin tilted.

“I have no need,” Cassandra said sternly, her hand going to her hip. “I am fine, just sore from the exertion.”

“Seeker...if I may be so bold, you still have bloodstains on your face and neck. Surely, that must not be all you have incurred in terms of damage. It would be wise to check in with the Healer’s tent, for good measure.”

“I said I am fine enough. Thank you, but it is not necessary. Please inform me or the Commander of when she is able to receive visitors. That will be all.”

The Healer’s brown eyes narrowed a bit out of compassionate concern, but she did not push any further. Her lips widened in a sorry grin, and she bowed and made her way back inside. Cassandra was then faced with a small, but heavy choice: to stay where she had posted herself, or find some way to busy her mind and hands while the due diligence was paid towards the Inquisitor’s condition by those qualified to do so. She looked out among the rows of tent ceilings, the encampment having calmed down but still grumbling in its immediate recovery from the siege. Bodies were still be gathered and brought back from the fortress for collection and identification. It had sent chills down her spine when she became first acquainted with war upfront and personal all those years ago, and it still did today--only now she had a way of concealing her horrors. Even as the air smelled of smoke and mud, sweat and rain.

She had dwelled there that long, she would continue to do so.

\--

The first friends you lose as a warrior are always the hardest, but it never gets easier. The first bonds you make without proper foresight, wisdom to caution you when you feel the desire to get close. How delicate life is as a balance, how unexpected and unfair the Maker’s wishes can appear to be. After more hours spent waiting by the tent Cassandra had forced herself to retreat to her own, to fully remove herself out of her armor she had worn more than 24 hours by that point. Even she of all people could determine armor as excessively worn, and by that point she lacked the fight in her heart to keep it on her body.

After she peeled herself out of it she used the small wash basin she had taken for her own use and rinsed her face and hair, letting the braid of the remaining long strands lose from its crown on her head. There was never enough clean water to absolve bodies of what they were capable of. Washing and bathing were merely aesthetic therapies. The true necessary cleansing was dedicated to one’s soul and conscience.

In her tent was a cot, a table with chairs, fur blankets strew on her bed and a rack for her armor to hang on its own. The Inquisitor was not the only one who was granted more spacious digs, though the Seeker would never have demanded it outright. The table held the wash bowl and a pile of letters, mostly report copies and missives. Organized but not as neat as they should have been. Buried underneath them was Leliana’s blasted letter, with her smug advive. Leliana always believed people had time for such contemplation, that emotions and affairs of the heart did not have to be stifled even in the most dire scenarios. There was always time, always energy to dedicate; she had always proved contrarian to the idea that one's duty governed their space for personal happiness. For years Cassandra believed her to be unrealistic in that trait. It wasn’t until this, until she went from stifling her feelings in her throat to almost losing the woman they were intended for, that she finally understood: Leliana did not believe in such things because she lacked consideration for the severity of war or hard times. She believed them because of her consideration, because she new how fragile the balance was, if any balance was managed in the first place.

For a while, Cassandra sat at the side of her cot, elbows planted on her spread knees, hands in the top of her short head of black hair. She didn’t need to uncover and open the letter: the words were branded in her mind along with everything else. _You overthink what it means to love and be loved by a woman._ So confident, so direct, like she had spent months of special observation on her, even deciphering her innermost thoughts. And in any case, had she really gone over the boundary? With everything that had happened, all that she saw and felt, there seemed to be no possibility of “overthinking”: everything was so dramatic, so perilous, so uncontrolled.

Everything about Olivia was just so: dramatic, perilous, uncontrollable. At the same time, though, it was refreshing, challenging, and endlessly unpredictable. The kind of rush, the kind of risk that came from life’s most miraculously fraught blessings. For as long as Cassandra Pentaghast could remember since the day she finished her rite and became a Seeker, she had adhered to discipline and moderation in all things to the highest possible extent. She had always been an impulsive, direct, quick-to-react woman: the need for temperance and patience were tenfold. Maybe, in the beginning, that is why the Inquisitor infuriated her so much: she looked balance in the face and opted out. She was faced with moderation, and poured over it until everything overflowed. There was no such thing as halfway, no need for a middle road when you could just forge a ridiculous path through parts unknown. And she had nothing but disdain for the faith, the one that defined Cassandra’s survival and strength throughout the major trials of her life.

_There is no reason why I should not detest her, nothing keeping me from judging her unsuitable and unlikable. She has even stated in the past she has no need for my approval nor my platonic agreement. How could I be so foolish?_

Cassandra could hardly imagine loving a man with such a disposition. Why was a woman vexing her with it? And would it be considered vexing? What if she had overestimated it all, gone beyond the realm of expectation and reality before thinking? It wouldn’t be the first time. People sometimes clung to hypotheticals to comfort them in times of despair. Uncertain futures made people question the forwardness of their purpose, the devotion of their virtues.

_“Cassandra Pentaghast, you are making the sun’s fury seem like a candle’s tepid tantrum, wipe that frown off your face and look at the beautiful day before us!”_

Her voice was far away. She has a habit of sneaking up on her, of catching her off guard between their arguments in the field with the most peculiar acts of aggressive affection. Though the memory was far away and untouchable, it was not unseeable: she was standing there, in the Hinterlands countryside. The long-living fall heat making everything like a steam trap of insufferable humidity. Even the Inquisitor could not disagree, for she had been looking like a pile of sweat and dirt for hours by that point in the day. Her armor was bloodstained, her boots and slacks muddy from her clumsy stumbles. But she was smiling, her hair stuck to her forehead and temples in wily curls and waves.

Envisioning her, Cassandra’s brows strained against her temples, her throat pulsing with tension. At last, after all that time playing strong, she allowed one solid tear to escape her eyes. The Maker did not intend such captivation for Andrastian women. He could not have put her in front of her, after all these years, all these trials, as her intended. Out of all the trace moments where she thought about the hypothetical suitor she thought she would find in the world someday, the daydreams were never of a blonde, clumsy, smart-mouthed, stubborn Orlesian woman. A woman with a fiendish smile and a knack for brawls with drunken men in strange villages. A woman who liked the color black a little too much, a woman who danced like a siren on a long table in the tavern yet couldn’t run a country mile without face-planting. She was a match for no one, for no one could possible be hers.

Boots scuffling against the dirt came closer and closer to her tent. The encroaching presence summoned her focus back to the present, and she wiped her cheek of the sweat and tear that she let fall. It was a soldier, standing at attention just outside.

“Seeker? The Healers have given word for you.”

Her heart skipped. Standing at once, she rolled her shoulders in back and stepped outside, seeing the timid but respectful soldier staring back through their helmet.

“Yes?” she asked discreetly, holding her tent drape in her fist.

“She is ready for visitors, Ser. Quietly. They said not to expect her to be awake.”

“Thank you. I will be over at once. Has the Commander been informed?”

“Yes, Ser, but he said he will leave it to you while he assesses the rest of the damages from the field.”

Cassandra’s chest leavened with new air. She would not let time or space keep her from her side now, even if the battle lay within the Inquisitor’s own path and no one else’s. Not this time. Semantics be damned; the Maker would have no hostilities for an ally with a conscience and word to upkeep.


	49. Misery Loves Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After some days, the Inquisitor finally awakens. Finding herself in devoted, friendly company, the reality of her injuries keeps her confined in both body and temper. A visit from Hawke, the woman who saved her from herself, helps her digest some of the uneasy consequences of her risky behavior.

_“Do you think the people will see you as anything but what you truly are -- an Imperial brat, born of privilege, speaking down from on high to the masses who toil away? Your vain refutation of the faith does nothing. You will be as complicit as your predecessors were: your friends false, your loyalty for purchase.”_

\--

Her breath hissed through her nose as she inhaled, eyes flickering open quickly. Her head and shoulders were propped up by pillows and folded blankets. Parting her lips, her eyes adjusted to the triangular visage of light coming from the right. She was in bed, in her tent, of all places. No castle ruin, no fortress. There was pressure in her that grew with each new, revitalized breath. Tilting her head away from the entrance, she winced at the twinge of stinging pain in the side of her neck. But she had to know, she had to find out just what that sound was that was coming in ever-louder and ever-clearer as her coherency grew. A curdling, rumbling sound to her left, like war horns.

No, not war horns. Just Sera snoring.

On the other half of the bed, her friend and ally curled up facing away from her, tucked like a curled up cat as she sawed logs. The slight irritation at her noisiness gave way to the joy in seeing her. In spite of the dull pain, Olivia reached toward her and poked her with her fingers. Nothing at first, just disturbed snorting. The Inquisitor smirked a bit, and poked her again.

“Agh! That didn’t come from m--wait, shit!” Sera cursed, pushing herself up at once and turning around to look back Olivia. “Hey! Shit, shit-shit, you’re awake!”

Olivia grinned, her throat dry and cumbersome, discouraging her from talking. She hoped her eyes could convey the happiness she could not verbalize. When Sera got the hint that she would not be opening her mouth, she grinned and pulled her knees up against her chest.

“Damn, woman, you got a whole camp spinnin’ upside down. Who told you…” she stopped herself, a frown showing. “Who told you you gotta be dumb?”

Olivia’s chest heaved a bit out of humor. It was then she felt a crack, small but there, in her side. She coughed, her hand going to where she felt it.

“Don’t move, Healers say you got messed up big time,” Sera intuitively explained. “You cracked a few and broke one, but your head got all knocked outta sorts. They say you’re lucky, and people won’t stop coming and prayin’ outside your tent.”

The Inquisitor listened, unsurprised by the report given the way her body felt like a pile of plywood. But the praying? Maker’s breath, hopefully they wouldn’t hear she was awake. No need to make the praying indoors and bedside. She closed her eyes, lips parting to breathe in more air as Sera watched, looking like she was trying her best to keep upbeat.

“You gonna talk, or did the demons steal your tongue?”

“A...ah…ahh...” Olivia’s voice, brittle and strained. She sounded pitiful in all honesty, so much so that Sera’s eyes went wide with recognition that she had crossed a line.   
“Oh, uh, don’t...uh, don’t worry--”

“--Ass.”

“...Well, you’re classy when you’re banged up,” Sera chuckled, patting her own thigh lightly. “Good to know you still got it.”

“I...I do. For...for the time...ugh, blast--”

“Maybe it’s best if you don’t talk much, I don’t want the Healers back on my skin about disturbing you. They already got on me for trying to stick honey on your pillow.”

“How...how did you…why...”

“See? No talking, better that way, yep!”

Olivia eyed her, unsure whether she truly wanted to know. Settling her shoulders into her pillows, she conceded to blissful ignorance.

“How long...how long was I out?” she managed to ask, leaning her head back.

“Two days and some extra.”

“...What?”

“I swear, two and some days. You didn’t snore, either. Or scream. It was weird.”

A soft chill came through the tent, sending the tent quaking humbly around them. There was no thunder, no rain. Whatever had taken hold of the range must have either passed or taken a break. Underneath the multiple blankets, the Inquisitor payed the cold no mind. It was better, more comfortable to her: the feeling of tunic linen around her body, and the fur keeping her warm. Would she dare admit to herself that she missed it? Given the pitiful amount of time she spent “away,” probably no.

“I gotta say, Inquisitor, you’ve had better face days,” Sera continued the smalltalk with her flare for compliments.

Snorting through her nose, Olivia gave a crooked grin. “I believe that.”

“I guess now I gotta tell the Healers and Cassandra you’re up an about. She’ll probably level half the camp to get to you once she hears.”

“What makes you...makes you say that?” Olivia asked, a question to save face as she struggled through a shallow breath, sliding herself by an inch further upright against her pillows.

“Pft, I’m not gonna get in that mess. You two have to sort out the cow eyes you got for each other, before one of you gets stuck with something sharp or trips over a cliff you don’t see while you’re busy ‘hating’ the other. You can’t tuck it away now. Not after that.”

“I have no idea what--agh!” Olivia’s knee-jerk reaction and the subsequent strike of pain in her side put her in her place. She was in no shape to execute her famous temper on full blast. As Sera smirked, she understood it was clear to more people besides herself that she had limitations. Luckily a visitor was able to cut into the embarrassment: one of the Healers, back from break and on rounds. As she slipped inside, the woman flinched and nearly dropped her tray of materials seeing the Inquisitor gazing back at her, eyes open and hand moving.

“My Lady! You’ve woken up!” she announced before rushing to the table nearest her to place her tools down. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Olivia sighed honestly “but its...its due to you that I...c-can…”

“I should not have made you feel compelled to talk, my Lady, I am sorry,” the woman was quick to correct herself, shaking her head as her hands began sorting through bottles of liquids variant in color and opacity. Her mouth scrunched to one cheek, swiveling a bottle underhanded to coalesce the ingredients together. Olivia was familiar enough to know for what reasons; she laid her head back, nose pointed up towards the tent roof to take a breather.

“Have the Seeker and Commander been notified?” the Healer asked Sera as she uncorked a bottle, pouring it into a bowl.

“Not yet. Can she get a minute to herself?” Sera countered a bit defensively.

“Oh, uh, it is not my place to tell you, my Lady.”

“Who you calling ‘Lady’?”

“...Well, you, my Lady.”

Olivia stifled a laugh that would have been too painful to endure even for as hilarious as that transpiration was. Rubbing her side, she eyed Sera with a raised, teasing brow. Glass was clinking and herbs were being sorted while the two friends tried not to cuss each other out through nonverbal cues alone.

“Ugh!” Sera gave up, shrugging her shoulders and sliding off the bed for good. “The sooner we get out of the place, the better. Everything’s ass-backwards. I’m gonna tell someone, you don’t die, we’ll call it even, alright?”

“Alright,” Olivia grinned, before her eyes caught on the bowl of medicine being brought to her. “You are dismissed...my Lady.”

“Don’t you…! Agh, yuck!” Sera groaned as she flailed her hands over her shoulders. Sauntering out with her smartass self, her presence had lightened Olivia’s waking minutes more than she knew -- well, she would know one day, when Olivia would take the opportunity to gush again. Once she had the heart for that kind of behavior. Once it didn’t hurt as much as helped to know friendship was still extended to her with everything she know remembered of the way it was before the Conclave.

The Conclave.

“My Lady, here is your dosage,” the Healer held out to her, one hand going over her head to gently guide it up off the pillow. Olivia didn’t fight back, but the notion of needing assistance to drink a damn tonic was irritating. She kept her mouth shut and her face ambiguously polite as she drank. It was bitter, strong, and acidic: three of her least favorite tastes to have, all combined in a substance that seemed to make a reconsideration of death more appealing. She held back a choke, swallowing it down in one swoop like a shot of hard liquor.

“I know it’s not that good,” the Healer replied, watching the Inquisitor react to the taste, “but it’ll be the fastest way of getting you back on your feet.”

“Gyughh,” Olivia gasped, sliding her tongue against the roof of her mouth as the aftertaste proved worse than the stuff itself. “This tastes like...like bone--”

“Bone setting elixir, yes. We had to adjust your ribs back into place. They are still a bit skewed, at least the broken one, my Lady. This’ll prevent infection and strengthen the regrowth.”

“...I understand,” Olivia sighed, clearing her throat of the stuff collecting in the back of her mouth, “I just...cannot understand...why...it tastes so bad.”

“You and me both, Inquisitor,” the Healer giggled, setting down the bowl beside her tools and wiping her hands on her apron. “I have been trying to come up with an alternative, or a lacing agent for it, but I have not found anything that works.”

Resting her head back fully, Olivia tilted her chin and watched the woman go to work tidying up and closing up bottles. She reminded her so much of the women she used to work beside in the Circle: bright, kind, and thoughtful. Always ready to talk about the topics she loved to learn about, what she cared about, even if no one else did.

“Perhaps...when we return to...to Skyhold, we can continue to pursue the....answer,” the Inquisitor suggested with a soft smile.

The Healer froze, and her head turned sharply in her direction. “Oh, oh no, Inquisitor, I did not mean to infer that I was unsatisfied with the--”

“It’s alright, I didn’t think...I didn’t think so. I was...an apothecary...scholar when I was at...Ostwick. I miss it. Please do not worry.”

“Oh…” the woman let her hands fall to her sides, her fingers nervously rubbing her nail beds. “I did not know...I didn’t know that you did those things,” she smiled, “they were right about you, about your background. I didn’t want to impose...I am honored, my Lady. That would be splendid.”

“Good. Now, if you could...find me some...water, to wash this blasted taste out…” Olivia began to squirm, pushing herself up further against her pillows, the miserable ache in her chest and waist fighting her the entire time. She would not be denied feeling just an ounce less pitiful. The woman flinched, looking ready to pounce on her to keep her from breaking her body again.

“Oh, oh! O-of course, Inquisitor. Please, be careful!”

“Careful...isn’t...agh!” Olivia bit back, before giving one last push up, until she had reached the height she wanted. “In my vocab...ulary, unfortunately,” she exhaled, relaxing. “Just foolish.”

From outside, a fresh gust of wind came through the tent opening, pushing back the drape even more insistently than the one prior to it. Only it ushered in more than just fresh air. Waltzing in confidently in armor and all was the Champion herself, her black hair tied back loosely, her face missing its red mark this time.

“I knew it!” she said, coming closer, ignoring the Healer’s look of caution. “I sensed it fifty paces out. That mana of yours, you lucky bastard.”

Olivia huffed, grimacing out the corner of her mouth as she did -- dammit, she needed less comedically-inspiring associates. The Champion looked hardy and untouchable as she always did, and in an odd way it gave Olivia a bit of renewed courage in her gut. The woman, the Mage known for having sorted herself through Kirkwall’s disasters at every turn, still kicking and smiling. The last memory she had of her was standing distraught in front of the rift, looking at her as if the Inquisitor were the most foolish person she had ever seen in her life.

“Hawke,” Olivia acknowledge with a slight tip of her chin, “I am glad to see you.”

“Don’t be glad just yet, that is always peoples’ famous last words before shit goes bad,” Hawke chuckled as she came around the foot of her bed. “How you holding up?  
“Like an old barn...in...a windstorm.”

“That stubborn, then?”

“Yes, so it seems.”

Hawke folded her arms, watching out the corner of her eye as the Healer picked up her things, bowing in the Inquisitor’s direction before heading out through the draped door. With the isolation now, her eyes became dimmer. Though, her playful smile lingered, perhaps to ease the Inquisitor’s mind. Olivia knew better, though, than to expect wholly positive company in those times.

“You caused a fuss, even I’m impressed,” Hawke continued, shifting her weight onto her hip. “I suppose I would ask you why you did it, but I think I know already without having to put you through the agony of testifying.”

“What...do you mean?”

“Your suicide attempt. You threw your ass on the thinnest line you could. You’re lucky you’re travel-sized, even with that armor of yours.”

Olivia inhaled as much as she could, her lips pursing as the reservoir of air remained in her throat. She held her head upright as her arms fell to her sides. So, Hawke was the one who had to haul her ass back through the rift, jeopardizing her life because she couldn’t be responsible with hers. She could have lost not only her life, but her two comrades, when one had already consented to being the sacrifice.

“I don’t know...what came...over me,” she admitted candidly, looking down at the blankets covering her body and their rough patterns. “I am sorry for risking...risking so much.”

“Don’t concern yourself, Inquisitor,” Hawke said sweetly, stepping closer and sitting off the corner of the bed. “Sometimes you get sick of letting others die for you, and you want to bridge the gaps between what is possible in impossible circumstances. Maker knows Varric can tell you in great detail all the times I tried. It’s no different for you.”

The Inquisitor frowned, letting her breath go. “Does it...does it get easier?”

Hawke huffed a bit, her head rocking up and down a couple times. “No, not much does with time, besides lovemaking and overdrinking. And even then, life surprises you when you least expect it.”

“Hah,” Olivia gasped low, “wonderful.”

The women exchanged wordless glances then, the petulant nature of their lives coming into full view. Their convergence, whether it was divinely-conspired, reckless luck, or the unfortunate kinship between two doomed souls, had its perks. One of which was knowing that wherever they were, whatever called upon them, there were people who were alive who knew what it was to be singled out by the horrific tests of human strength. It may have proven lonely, but they were never alone.

“I’ll tell you one thing, though, that See--”

“Let me guess, you, too...think I need...to settle things with…”

“Woah now, I did not come to pester you to handle your personal affairs like a nosy grandmother!” Hawke laughed, “am I not the first one to say, then?”

“No, and you won’t...be...be the last,” Olivia breathed, rolling her head from side to side as the strain in her neck and shoulder began to arise. Hawke watched her with keen eyes, but not intrusive in their need to know the fine details. Clearly the dirty laundry Olivia had been trying to keep tucked away had been allowed to slip into the open with the tests of battle and mortality.

“Listen, Inquisitor,” Hawke said as she let her arms fall to her lap, “I know you have probably never felt more alone and hunted in your life. Even as Mages who know what it means to be both those things, I think you and I can agree this shit only makes it worse. You feel bad at everything you try to do good, like no matter what you decide, someone will be scorned or harmed; you feel like people will never let you live, right?”

Olivia sucked on her teeth, eyes shuffling anywhere to keep from making eye contact with her, because if she did it would show: the truth that hit too close to home, the suffering that was so reticent and deep-seeded.

“You can avoid my beautiful, no, ravishing blue eyes all you like, but you know I know. You worry you’ll mess it up like everything else. You worry it won’t be worth it, that you’ll be selfish for having tried only to endanger them for being with you.”

“I don’t...I don’t--”

“You’re fighting me with only, what, one working rib?”

“...Ugh,” Olivia huffed, rolling her eyes. “You know I can’t...can’t say anything because...you saved...my ass.”

“Damn right, I do. But the point still stands: the world wants you miserable. It’ll provide ample opportunity for you to be that way. If you get the chance to tell them ‘not today,’ do it. Whether it be with friends, or...good, friends.”

For better or worse for Olivia’s ego, something in Hawke’s advice clicked. She made it sound like a point blank idea, simplifying the ins and outs of her spinning thoughts down to a clear picture. For once, something tempted her with how much sense it made. Her eyes lit up, and she finally looked at her, brow softened.

“You know it’s not just a matter...a matter of happiness and misery, Hawke,” she pressed, shaking her head once.

“I know bloody well. But then again, was life ever like that? Look, I don’t know her diary pages, but I can tell you one thing: after I saw the look on the Seeker’s face and heard the way her voice sounded when we came outta there, Varric owes me twenty sovereigns for a bet we’ve for months. And something tells me the way you’re looking at me now, the way those eyes of yours flared up, that she’s doesn’t feel that way all by herself.”

Olivia’s eyes widened and she looked away, back towards the drape. Why didn’t she find out a way to subdue her eyes when she had the chance? No, teenage Olivia thought they were pretty and interesting. Now, she realized the youthful vanity was nothing more than a bite in the ass for her future adult self when it came to saving face in complicated times.

But the sound of Hawke laughing some more made her too curious to keep away with her gaze.

“Merrill has a face like that when we argue, and she’s feeling stubborn,” she confided, hunching forward a bit as she collected herself through her laughing.

“Merrill? So it is...the book was true…”

“You think Varric would lie about that of all things? Well, I suppose it may come off a bit too sweet for real life. Someone like her choosing someone like me seems a bit too miraculous. It’s something about the kind ones who pack a punch, isn’t there? Always surprising you.”

Olivia had a response in mind, up until Hawke’s last sentence through everything off balance. The kind ones that you don’t mess with. The heartfelt ones that know how to put up a fight. Yes, she knew exactly what she meant.

“Mm,” she replied, swallowing her ounce of spit she managed to have in her dry, medicated mouth. “Thank you, Hawke. I...I am truly...honored..”

“The honor was mine, Inquisitor. Rest easy, you have a great number of people praying for you. Whether you like that or not, hey, has it ever stopped them?”

Olivia giggled faintly, leaning her head back. She watched as Hawke rose from her seat on the bed corner, dusting off one of her thighs and looking simultaneously ready for a fight and for a hug. .

“No,” she wagered in return, “never.”


	50. One More Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra at last comes to see a newly-awaken Inquisitor. Their awkwardness grades on the feelings unshared between them, provoking another conflict that is short-lived when Cassandra helps Olivia realize some suppressed truths about her life.

Hawke stole away before the Seeker arrived, showing off talent for not getting too attached to being in one space too long. Olivia had time to close her eyes and listen to her surroundings: eavesdropping on the passersby and their conversations, the sounds of horses in the distance. The mountain air, the subtle smell of rain it brought with it -- and the smell of smoke that cloaked it. Militaries always traveled and existed like their own natural disasters. To know it was all for her, at her word and will, was hardly comforting. These senses were aggravating, slowly pulling her from her meditative state of mind into one of deep dread. The echoing sounds of swords clashing and demons crying started coming closer and closer, and before she knew it, the sensation of walking through tall grass came back. This time, though, she had only a bedridden body to distract her as it pulled and pushed against her.

But, then, through the breeze that carried into her tent, there was a new scent: one of mint, and subtle spice. And just like that, rushing through the tent drape looking ready to take on the world, there she was: the woman who Olivia could never hope to be over.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra said, alarmed as she stepped inside. She was wearing clean armor, more formal looking in its design, not for combat. She looked keen, but off her guard.

Olivia raised her head up again, her hair in a loopy braid over her shoulder, freshly washed that morning while she was still unconscious.

“Cassandra,” she grinned, blinking the tired blur from her eyes.

“I...I…” the Seeker started, coming closer until she stood only about a yard from her side of the bed, hands fidgeting with each other. “It is a relief to know you are awake. How are you feeling?”

“About as good...as I can,” she replied, placing a hand on her stomach. “Did you dress up...just...all for me?”

“This?” Cassandra questioned, looking down at her armor, hand on the sword hooked onto her belt. “Oh, no. I meant…we have just returned from burning pyres, Inquisitor.”

Olivia’s stomach dropped; it had already felt like solid stone from taking nothing but medicines, but that news was the final nail. They burned bodies without her. She wasn’t there to light the torch, to oversee the ceremonies, say goodbyes. She would never know what faces she’d have to let go of seeing every day. It was an inevitable practice she had spent weeks emotionally preparing for with the consolation that she would have enough honor and integrity as a leader to see it through, to be there when it mattered for her grieving army. If I hadn’t been so stupid, she cursed to herself, dammit, why did I do all of this?

“I...I see,” her face turned, and she looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, it was...it was necessary, given the amount of time that had--”

“It is alright, no, I...I understand. I have been...like this for...for some days, I know. If you do not...mind sitting, I...I would like to see you, and my...my neck is...”

“Oh, yes, Inquisitor.” Cassandra took a rushed breath, her eyes not tearing away from her as she stepped back and took a seat at the end of the bed on the Inquisitor’s side, taking care not to put pressure on any resting limbs. One hand went on the blankets, the other remained on her thigh, as the two were at eye level again. As Cassandra settled in, Olivia found herself hoping nothing and no one would enter and interrupt. No Healers, no generals, no allies -- even if she wished to see them, even if she missed them so much, which she did on both counts.

Her neck ached less as she looked upon the Seeker straight ahead of her, and she took a breath to compose her emotions that seemed haphazard too early in the game.

“Has everything...has work been…”

“Nothing has disrupted our work thus far, save for the remaining Wardens wishing to know what is to become of their ranks. That order has been left to you, should you have...survived.”

Olivia snorted a little. “I am sure that has been a comfort to them,” she exhaled with sarcasm lacing her breath, her thumbs rolling around each other slowly as an outlet of physical movement.

Cassandra blinked, her chin lowered a bit. “Your recovery has not been a burden, Inquisitor. We have managed to ensure all procedures continued as planned. The Commander is relieved to know you are awake, and will come give a more thorough report when he is finished surveying the fortress.”

“And what of you?”

“...Me?”

“Yes, what has kept you busy?”

“...Oh,” Cassandra leaned upright, both her hands now gathered between her knees, fingers laced together. “I have been overseeing your more logistical responsibilities, to keep operations running. Communications and receiving missives, mostly; Leliana’s people have been collecting information on the Wardens’ and tracking where Corypheus’s henchman may have escaped to. Such efforts have needed oversight on the ground.”

“So, you’ve been me?”

“...If that is how you would like to see it, perhaps.”

“I...I don’t mean to be so blunt. I cannot really be winded in my...my talking, now.”

Cassandra shook her head. “No need to be concerned, Inquisitor. That is to be expected, considering your injuries.”

“You know them?”

“Know who?”

“...My injuries.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Both I and the Commander have been updated regularly. You...it was vital that we had the status of your condition.”

Olivia eyed her, her palms feeling warm with the sense of compassion and self-consciousness she had watching the Seeker hesitate and grow ancy the longer she was there. Hawke’s words about how she reacted in the wake of her accident came into view in her mind’s eye: this woman must be overwrought in the moment over how to feel and behave around her.

“Cassandra, you look tired,” she remarked, adjusting her shoulders delicately. “Perhaps...you should rest, and...and then we can talk later, when….when I can better keep up.”

The look of stifled betrayal on the Seeker’s face only further confirmed her suspicions. It was quite the sequel expression to the face she made when Solas pulled her out of the Fade -- not as devastating, but moving all the same.

“Inquisitor, I have rested well enough. You need not care for…” she stopped herself, eyes flickering down to her lap momentarily, before returning to her. “You need not concern yourself with me. There are duties to be done, and I intend to continue the day’s schedule.”

“You’ll run yourself dry,” Olivia said simply, shaking her head.

“I will not, I--Forgive me, Inquisitor.”

“For what? Me picking...picking a fight?” Olivia snickered. Maker only knew she must have had dark circles under her eyes, that her skin must be pastey and half-dead looking, and her body under her tunic shirt and slacks must look like a cut up board of meat to sample.

“The Healers say I must sleep. It, it’s better for me,” Olivia offered, her body sliding a bit back into the plush cushions of her pillows and fur.

“You are consenting to sleep?” Cassandra asked in slight astonishment, brow lifted with a skeptic’s expression.

“Yes, I am.”

“...and you are not having...difficulties, with it?”

“Not for the time being.”

Once again, the rug was being slid out from under Cassandra’s feet -- metaphorically, to be sure.. Olivia could not have been awake for more than a couple of hours and she was already flipping scripts. Who knew what else she would do or say now. A pair of heavy footsteps went past the tent drape, casting shadows across them. Someone was talking, snorting as they chuckled at something the other said. Cassandra looked up sharply, as if she, too, was dreading visitors who would disturb them. Seeing that they were only just passing by, both of them turned back towards each other. Maybe now was not the time to tell a crazy story about a dream she had while unconscious for two and a half days where her ancestor appeared and told her she’d ease her dreams if it meant she would fulfill a familial prophecy in her “off time.” Something told her Cassandra was one frayed nerve away from striking down five straw dummies in a fit of cathartic rage.

“I suppose it would be best for you to have more rest,” Cassandra said as she leaned further off the bed in preparation to rise to her feet.

“Where will you go?” Olivia asked as she scooted down more, pulling her blanket up over her chest.

“Most likely to the Commander’s base a few tents over. Why do you ask?”

Olivia smiled crookedly, her cheek resting against the soft fur. “I was thinking. Look behind you.”

Cassandra followed her instruction, peering back over her shoulder at the long table covered in maps, notes, and opened scrolls. Her table, her center of her universe, from which she debated, planned, and ordered. The Seeker only took a brief couple seconds to take it in before she looked back at her, face slightly pink with sparked humility.

“Oh, no, Inquisitor. I have already used it too much al--” she stopped herself, tucking her chin as she rose to her feet. “I meant…”

Olivia chuckled sweetly, a warm bubbling of her voice, slightly hoarse. “I don’t mind. No one will suspect, if I am asleep.”

“Are you certain?”

“You doubting my command?”

Cassandra paused, mouth open; savviness in Olivia’s tone made her chuckle nervously. She grinned as if she was finally allowing herself to for the first time in days. It was relieving to see, and in a bittersweet way gave Olivia the permission she was looking for to go back to sleep, knowing that she had provided some kind of genuine solace in the wake of the mess she had made.

“...I suppose it would make sense.”

“Good,” Olivia hummed, her eyes narrowing as she approached another round of sleep that was promised to be divinely uneventful in her dreams. “Try not to make it a party.”

\--

For all Olivia knew, the nightmare-less sleeping after her injury could have been a fluke instigated by the trauma her body incurred. However, the nap she took following her conversation with Cassandra was proof that she wasn’t just testing fate: the only memories she had from her dreams were lucid senses: soft touches, warmth, smells of fresh linen and tea. The kind of senses one holds onto in life and is always fond of, recreated in slumber. She hadn’t known such simple luxurious since she was a child. Whatever it was in that dream she had, or whoever, they were either lucky bastards or the real thing.

When she finally woke up, it was nightfall. Candles were lit on the long table, and on the end table in the corner, and a couple even on the one beside her. It was quiet outside, save for some distant conversations and laughter, perhaps from the bonfire pits. It was heartening to hear that her people could still laugh, still be with each other. Her people, all of them.

When she did wake up, it was facing the tent opening; it had been shut since she last saw it hours before. Visitors must have come in and out all afternoon, not wondering if the Inquisitor had changed at all in condition with the sight of her unconscious across the way. Cassandra could work and field reports for as long as she wished. Oh, wait, then...

Looking down the bed’s edge she saw her, head in her hand, the other writing away. She hunched so badly, it was such a poor habit for her muscles. Olivia blew through her nose a bit of humored air, blinking her eyes open and shut until the full, crystal clear image of her in the candlelight appeared. She had removed her formal armor, only wearing a thick buttoned military coat now. Curious behavior from the woman who was rumored to sleep in chain mail.

“They must have given me the good stuff,” she mused aloud, rolling her shoulder without feeling the pain she did before.

Cassandra jerked up out of her seat, hands on the wood and quill dropped flat. She looked ready to sound the alarm and ride off into battle all over again. When the disturbance turned out to be nothing but Olivia’s tired, half-asleep expression, she stepped back and recomposed her nerve.

“I am unsure, though you stayed asleep for the entire afternoon,” she said, picking the quill up and holding it in both her hands. “Are you well?”

“Mm, yes,” Olivia confirmed as she stretched herself a bit, feeling the tips of her toes and rolling more onto her back. “Like a yearling out to pasture.”

“That is...that is good to hear.”

“Cassandra?”

The Seeker looked up. “Yes?”

Olivia stared at her, freezing in place with nothing but a slight turn up in her lips and hazy eyes. “Thank you.”

Awkwardness loomed in the atmosphere. Olivia didn’t waste time, and hardly wasted conversations on anything menial or lighthearted. Well, she did, but Cassandra seemed to be one of the few exceptions where she went for the jugular in almost any fashion she could. Only this time did she do so with the intention of indicting herself and her actions, rather than someone else.

“It is nothing, Inquisitor. I am merely doing what I am expected to, nothing more.”

“You are expected of a great deal.”

“Not more than you, to be certain.”

“That remains to be seen.” Olivia then placed her hands on either side of her, taking a deep breath and rolling her mouth closed as she began pulling herself up again. The pain in her chest was dull, more pressure than anything. But it still was fragile and sensitive to changes in weight distribution. As she attempted, Cassandra came around to the side of the table looking like she was chastising herself for not doing something to help.

“Agh,” Olivia said at last, propping herself up enough to face her at an upright angle, head and neck off the pillow pile. “I can’t even be clumsy, now.”

“You are not…”

Olivia raised a brow, calling her out even before she could finish the sentence. “Hm?”

Cassandra sighed, scanning the remaining work and reports on the table beside her. She blinked with fatigue, and shook her head. “Nevermind.”

“That’s what I thought. Now, what is on the docket?”

Cassandra slid back in between her chair and the table, ready to take her seat before the Inquisitor asked her question. Cassandra was unsure looking, rare form for her especially when in the middle of work.

“They are dispatches of our numbers. We have been conducting a head count of losses these past two days. We still have injured people in the tents, but the deaths have decreased enough for us to estimate.”

“I see. And our major equipment?”

“Accounted for, including all trebuchets.”

“Good. And the cavalry? The archers?”

“Also detailed.” The Seeker took her seat, elbow planting itself on the table beside her paper stack as she rubbed the back of her neck. For as steadfast as she appeared to her task, she was acting reluctant to return to writing. Her brow lowered unevenly, like it always did when she was reading and writing. A look of unamused frustration, but stubborn will to finish a task. Olivia grinned watching her before she let her eyes wander around. To her right, the end table full of half-empty medicine glasses and a serving bowl rest, clean and ready for use. There was also a wash basin beyond them, empty looking with a rag hanging off the side. She then looked to the back left corner, where her armor laid out, dirty and pulled apart like they had been trampled over. So much for superior Enchanters taking good care of the superior armor.

“Cassandra, do you need a break?” she asked, just as it seemed the quiet would endure between them.

The Seeker kept writing something down with a freshly-dipped quill. When she addressed the question, it was when she was going in for a second dose of ink to continue on. “I am fine.”

“You always say that.”

“Because that is the truth.”

Olivia held back a laugh. “Come now, you’re fighting with an injured woman.”

“Since when has injury ever disqualified you and your ability to pick an inconvenient fight, Inquisitor?”

“Well, three days ago, to be exact.”

Cassandra’s quill scratched, and she rolled her lips. Yes, Olivia was on the mend, and so was her penchant for striking nerves. Though, this one was not intentional. Olivia’s heart beat a bit quicker; she was walking a fine line, finer than she could even know. With every moment Cassandra’s awkward disposition prevailed, she was getting more hints as to how precarious her patience level was.

“Why don’t you come kick your feet up? Steal a pillow…” Olivia said as she reached back to her left, grasping the top of one of the cushions.

Cassandra sat upright, base of her palm pushing back on the table. “Are you suggesting I share your bed with you?”

“With the amount of guts and slobber, I imagine it’s more cesspool than bed,” the Inquisitor teased, pulling the pillow she had hand-chosen for the Seeker onto her lap, biting back a wince from the slight pain her extension caused in her side. “Besides, you think I’m in any shape to make moves?”

“Is that supposed to convince me?” Cassandra continued to question, her facade unbroken in its distanced reserve.

“We have shared tents before, this is no bigger or smaller.”

“That is different.”

“For what reason?”

“Because that was--” Cassandra once again cut herself off short of saying something she knew was unfair and unwise to speak into existence given the present context. Olivia could see it in her face, the strings of proper and disciplined order straining against the weight of what was unsaid. The pressure was becoming palpable in her tent -- it may have been big, but it wasn’t that big of a space.

“Cassandra, just for a moment. Bring the work with you, perhaps I can help.”

“You have do--you do not need to worry about work now.”

“No, but I worry for you.”

The Seeker froze again, this time to lift her chin and stare back. The Inquisitor’s soft but focused stare disarmed her will to fight her. Indeed, three days ago a sight like that was not a promise on the horizon she could count on. Maybe that is why she, against the logics of the situation, rose from her chair one more time. Picking up the half-inch or so thick pile of parchment, Olivia heard her sigh through narrowed lips as she made her way over. She tried her hardest not to stare at the way her hips swayed, appreciating the lack of heavy armor which covered up the way her body moved. Dancing with death did many things to her, including affirming her appreciation for certain sights in the living world. Appearing delighted, Olivia set the pillow to her left side,, patting down once on the spot. Cassandra, meanwhile, was busy keeping her eyes on her papers as she went down onto her knee on the side of the bed.

“So, what is the damage?” Olivia asked as the Seeker settled in against the pillows, leg tucked underneath her as she spread out the sheets of paper in front of her. There was a method, clearly, by the way she was distributing them to certain spots on the blanket. Some had numbers, others lines of writing. Some had scratch work in the margins, and others were more polished.

“The vast majority of the damage was on armor and combat weapons,” Cassandra explained, continuing to sort. Olivia took a few pages into her hands, holding them beside each other as she read through. “Our materials are strong against demonic attacks, but not enough to withstand on a broad scale.”

Olivia sighed. “We have to expand our reach and explore metallurgy options. Josephine will be hard pressed to find more ways of securing resource treaties than she already has,” she muttered, expending her breath as conservatively as possible against the pressure of her wound and stiff bandaging.

“Treaties can only get us so far. We must establish quarries and direct lines of production,” Cassandra countered, flipping a page over. “These numbers will take time to resupply. We must be careful in the weeks ahead of us not to extend beyond capacity.”

“And to allow the soldiers to heal and recover from injury, to be sure.”

“Yes.”

“That will put new strains on our plans to travel to the Graves,” the Inquisitor said, scrunching her nose a bit while she checked over the arithmetic on the pages. “We’ve already been set back with my condition, haven’t we?”

“Marginally. The encroaching winter will be of greater concern; traveling back into the rim of the Frostbacks may prove more tedious.” Cassandra tossed a page into another pile, done with the information it offered. Moving onto the next one without so much as a pause or casual talk, it seemed that a ‘break’ was anything but.

Olivia raised a brow, side-eyeing her as she set down her own selected pages. Cassandra was so good at being a hard worker as a means of comforting herself. If she could not change the way things were, she could work to influence them going forward. That was her M.O., and for as long as Olivia had known her -- which, admittedly, was not even a year -- it was like clockwork. Every time they fought, whether a blow up or a tiff, it was with the understanding that one would find a way to work forward and the other would find a way to bounce back. Always forward, always suppressing what they were trying to leave behind.

“Cassandra,” Olivia hummed, sliding her papers off her lap.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” Cassandra replied, still reading, still neglecting to look her in the eye. The amount of times Olivia had said her name out of the blue was intriguing even for her standards. She missed saying it. Missed having a reaction to it. More than she could even understand in the moment.

“I’m sorry.”

Cassandra stopped, her nose tilting up as she at last broke herself away from work to turn her attention fully on the moment before her. The room took a turn, the air becoming heavier. The feeling you get when your hand reached and touched the thorn in the side of the situation. The tension, like a stretched and pulled yard of fabric, could only provide so much resistance before it started to rip and warp.

“You...you have nothing to apologize for, Inquisitor.”

“Olivia.”

“Inquisitor, you--”

“Cassandra, I know you wish to say it. I know you’re angry. Please, say Olivia.”

The Seeker bit her lip and looked down at her lap. The papers and their consequences seemed to erode away, slipping and sliding from the focus of both their minds. Olivia had made her moves and her manipulations, even if they were with the best intentions.

“What I wish to say is unimportant now. You are recovering, and that is what matters,” Cassandra refuted, leaning tall and broadly upright. Her posture was always better when she was feeling defensive.

“So you admit you wish to say it,” Olivia prodded, her hand taking hold of the edge of the thick blanket across her stomach. “Then why not?”

“It is not that simple.”

“Who says?”

“I say, and that is enough.”

“It is always enough, but it is not always right. Just say it, get it off your chest.”

“No.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed in on the side of her face. She couldn’t move, couldn’t wrestle it out of her. As if she would win such a battle even in top shape. She took a deep breath in the wake of being rebuked, but it only made things worse: the way Cassandra smelled, that damn mint and spice. It was in her face now that she was sitting a foot away, even if she was brooding away about her feelings instead of sharing them. It was overwhelming to a woman hopped up on elfroot, who was more appreciative of the sweet things in life because of the sour taste of bone-setting tonic in her throat.

Maybe she had done too much. Maybe she had gone too far. Maybe she hadn’t done enough, and now the scars of her misjudgment and her miscalculation of its hold on her would be that sour taste in her throat when the tonic wore off. Maybe it would always be this way, and she would walk around being the human projection of that bitterness. Hawke’s prophetic wisdom would be vindicated: the world would seek her misery, and she would provide it willingly, a vessel of nefarious gratification. They would feast on her body and her name like a delicious selection of supple limbs, agony in excess. All the while she would delude herself into thinking she had won. This was her Mother’s child come of age. This was the masked victor’s feast, the Game’s great doctrine haunting her and her real chance to know love worth being seen for.

“I messed up. I messed up, I messed up…” she muttered, her voice growing brittle. Tears began to well and her vision swirled and blurred together colors at their ravenous build up in her eyes. She raised a hand to hover across her face as she let out a ragged breath, soft and shallow.

Cassandra looked over her shoulder at once, the sound like a knee-jerk call-and-response. She leaned back, shifting her weight to face her a bit more, but her body language was still reserved, cautious in the face of even a breakdown in Olivia’s walls. After all, walls coming down did not mean what awaited on the other side was anything better. Still, her crying...it was almost unbearable.

“Inquisitor...Olivia...” she managed to say, but hesitated on what else to add.

“No,” Olivia cut short, wiping her face with the side of her thumb “you don’t want to call me that. I messed up, I ruined it. I ruined this like I ruined Veronica’s plans, I can’t...I can’t even say I know...know how to be a friend, anymore…” she quivered, her breathing becoming more uneven and discontent, pushing against the restrictions of her bandages. It only fostered more visceral panic in her body. 

“Olivia,” Cassandra retorted, taking her hand away from her face and pulling it carefully but confidently away from her face, so their eyes could only know the sight of each other’s. “Your friend betrayed you. What you tried to do was noble, and selfless. It was also careless and foolish, but...it was not your fault she could not see past her bitterness and jealousy. Do not punish yourself for her misjudgement of your kindness, something she proved herself undeserving of by allowing you to endanger yourself at her service.”

The words hit like a ton of bricks followed by a punch to the face. Olivia’s chest grew calm, but the tears were still coming and going as they pleased down her tired face. This had to be the most soft Cassandra had been in recent times to people crying in her presence: recruits’ sniffling and weeping would only get them another lap around the courtyard and then extra push-ups in the mud. She only had to almost die physically in the Fade to be deserving of it, though.

“So, everyone did see the memories.”

“Yes, we did.”

“Then why did no one say anything?”

Cassandra held off answering. Something in her eyes said what she was preparing to confess was going to hurt, so much so that even she would feel sympathy pain from it. It was made harder by Olivia looking the way she did: tear-stained, tired, eyes bright but not out of a lust for life like they usually were.

“The woman in your memories is the same woman who came to Skyhold during your deployment at the Approach. I did not interact with her myself, but I saw her enough to recognize who she was. It was no surprise that she was involved in your presence at the Conclave. You conduct yourself with evasiveness and flippancy, Olivia, but you are no mystery to those closest to you. The vision of what happened, of what brought you to the Temple, was little more than a confirmation of suspicions: that you were compelled by the same loyalty and friendship you live without so effortlessly. Even in your amnesia, it haunted you and your choices enough for others to see something had scarred you.”

So that was the bottom line. Olivia had worked so hard, whether she desired to or not, to practice the art of unpredictability, and it all backfired. She was the woman who wore emotions on her sleeves and believed them written in invisible ink, but it was only ever invisible to her. Or, rather, her deep want of it to be concealed left her unable to truly see reality.

Cassandra turned away from her when it became clear she had rendered her hurtfully speechless. The sticky bandage had been ripped away from her. Looking back to the papers, they represented impertinence, now. Duty was a veil to sincere, painful emotion that had gone too long untended.

Left without eyes upon her, Olivia sucked on her bottom lip, looking down at her hands and specifically the part of her wrist where Cassandra had took hold of her.

“Is it any less devastating to know, rather than it being all your fault, that it was the fault of someone you loved and trusted?” she questioned, winded breath underneath her painful words.

Cassandra’s shoulders curved forward a bit, and she hung her head a little low for someone with so much understated bravado. “I cannot be the one to answer that, for it is still a mystery to me, myself. Sometimes the Maker does not intend for us to understand the choices of those we care for most, only that we continue to remember his call for us to forgive.”

“No one can be so important as to be entitled to the absolution of all our pain and need for justice…” Olivia challenged, wiping her cheek with her tunic sleeve pressed to her skin. “There has to be some form of heed...something…”

“If there was, the world would devolve into nothing but a populous of the endlessly hungry, ready to make others hurt as they do, unhealed and unhelped. Forgiveness is the original liberatory power within us all, Olivia: before war, before brutality became heralded in legends. There can be a world where past wrongs are righted, and no blows are struck to continue the path towards mutual destruction. That is what faith calls upon us to see when all else seems lost to darkness: to understand that life must go on further than wrath ever should.”

The candles seemed to still and bow before Cassandra’s wisdom, their luminosity flickering low in in unison in such a way to suggest that a breeze went through. But the air was stagnant. Their flickering, though connected by her penchant for fire, was no match for what Olivia felt in her bruised and broken chest. The middle of her lips parted faintly, timid to breach the perfection of the moment with more of her vitriol. The only wish she had was that she could have seen the look in Cassandra’s eyes as she spoke, but maybe it was better she didn’t -- if she had the chance to, she may have lost all ability to save face, and finally admit that she was falling for her.

Cassandra was less sentimental in her observance of the moment as she took hold of a few pages held flat between the side of her index finger on her left hand. Olivia could see the tips of her eyelashes flicker as she commenced reading again. A part of her wondered if she was doing it earnestly, or if she was covering.

Regardless, Olivia lost the heart for debate. Instead she went for the impossible, the unwise, the unprofessional. Pushing herself forward and off her cushioned rest, no hot pain of healing ribs or muscles could keep her at bay. Leaning over, she went immediately for Cassandra’s shoulder, her left hand wrapping around the inside of the Seeker’s bicep and holding it tightly wound. Her cheek coming to rest atop her shoulder, able to see now the materials on her lap. She fit better than she remembered the first time they ever held each other, though that incident was happy accident. She was nothing but intentional now, redeeming her recklessness.

Cassandra’s body stiffened, her back and arms most of all to the sensation of someone touching her thus. Not just anyone, but her. What did this mean? The signals made no sense, no clear cut formula or goal that she could ascertain simply from the way she felt against her. Olivia, in true form, neglected to study any manual of interpersonal conduct. She went by her own rules, defying even her own precedents.

But in the mystery, there was also comfort.

All along, it was a bit nerve-wracking for the Inquisitor even in her style of restlessness, not knowing if Cassandra would pull away like she had been all evening with her opinions and vulnerabilities, or let her in. Then an answer: a deep, cathartic sounding sigh flowed from Cassandra’s chest, and she relaxed, leaning back onto the wall of pillows ever-so-steadily.

“Why did you have Solas do what he did, when you knew what we had promised?” she asked at last in a hushed, softer tone. Ah, at long last, the question that proved so skittish. The question that would all but speak into existence the sincere depth of Cassandra’s disconcertiveness.

Olivia inched closer against her with what strength she utilize, but her priority was keeping as snug a hold on her as possible. Her clothes smelled of well-oiled leather and hide, and of course her quintessential herbal scents that felt like clutching an apothecary’s closet in her arms.

“I wanted to protect you from my own foolishness, I suppose,” Olivia said in dismay.

“Then you...you knew what you were doing was going to…”

Olivia closed her eyes and reached her left hand down Cassandra’s arm. Just as she was about to finish her sentence, she place her hand in hers, lacing her fingers between them and feeling the coarse texture of her glove. Her hand was small in comparison to it, but not that small. Not powerless in the conveyance of its need.

Once again, Cassandra’s initial sternness gave way to cohesion. After a couple breath’s worth of time, she collapsed her fingers around Olivia’s hand. The Inquisitor could feel the Seeker’s jaw tense from where she was resting her chin on her shoulder, but instead of bringing more attention to it, she let her have her silent disapproval.

“Promise me you will not do something like that again.”

Olivia’s eyes opened just a bit, her gaze on the blanket before them. “Like what?”

Cassandra let a few seconds of solemn silence; she was struggling to say something meaningful but without overt, indulgence sentimentality. A fine like to walk, indeed.

“Act as if your life and your stake here are disposable. Promise me, Inquisitor.”

“...I promise, Seeker,” Olivia affirmed. “Now, pass me the stack on the left.”

\--

The crux of dawn felt like a different kind of cold than the thick of night did, especially in the mountains. It was enough of a shift in atmosphere for Olivia to stir awake, another night of terror-less slumber under her belt. She could get used to that, and that was both bitter and sweet to know. What wasn’t upsetting to savor, however, was the way it felt to wake up with Cassandra’s warmth at her side. They had stayed up for a couple more hours after their heated discussion, when sitting had devolved into leaning, and then leaning into laying. Olivia never unraveled her arm from Cassandra’s, though her cast and bandages kept her from from anything more than that.

When she came to, it was with her left cheek tucked against the side of Cassandra’s shoulder. Something was against the top of her head, and upon slight movement, she discovered it to be Cassandra’s chin that had taken to dwelling in her head of blonde hair. Not wanting to disrupt something so rare and temporal, Olivia eased back into the shape she had awoken in, letting a long, tired breath flow from her nose. Her narrowly open eyes took in every little increment of the scene she found herself in: Cassandra’s shape, with one arm across her stomach and the other flat along her left side. Her right left curved a bit outward, the other bent upward at the knee just a bit. She hadn’t taken her boots off, but it was no matter. Olivia could find it in her heart to forgive.

After she soaked in the sight, she found herself staring off into space as her eyes grew heavy again. They had went late, later than she probably should have given her condition. But it was not like she kept herself up by doing sprints and wielding a weapon. Company and mental stimulation could be productive healing practices, too, and good for morale. So what if a portion of it was conflict and making a mess of tortured feelings. One needed to have a mess in order to clean, right?

Just as her eyes closed, welcoming another round of sleep, she heard a voice groan. Cassandra’s leg lowered flat onto the bed, toe of her boot stretching downward as her chest and ribs squirmed. Olivia did her best to keep herself steady against her for her own sake, the elf root having unfortunately worn off enough for the underlying burn of her ribs to be a sobering wake-up call.

“What hour is it?” Cassandra grumbled, her chin lifting off of Olivia’s head. So much for prolonging the sweetness.

“I’m unsure,” Olivia breathed, refusing to open her eyes. “I assume the sun is close to rising.”

“I should...I should return to my tent…” Cassandra pondered before groaning again.

“Mmm, you should.” With Cassandra’s shifting, the sound of rustling papers that had not been filed away or tossed to the side went with them, rolling and sliding atop the blanket that covered Olivia but had stayed stuck underneath the Seeker in her heavy underlayer coat and breeches.

“The Commander will be...receiving the day’s first reports…” the Seeker continued to enumerate.

“Mm, yes, he will be.”

“And...and he will wish to consort with you…”

“Indeed, he will.”

“....Inquisitor.” Cassandra stopped at last, her body still again. “Your words differ in opinion to your grip.”

Olivia paused, wishing she could be pretending to be asleep so that she would be above reproach for such innocent faults.

“Mm, yes, they--”

“Inquisitor.”

Olivia sighed at last, laying her head back onto her pillow so that she may open her eyes and stare straight across to Cassandra, her arm loosening a degree. “Tell me, is it your belief that the sun rises faster when you quarrel uselessly when you could just...enjoy the moment?”

Cassandra lowered one of her brows. Olivia was a sight for sore eyes in the morning: hair messy and in abundant supply, eyes scrunched and resistant to reality. A curl of hair stuck straight down the middle of her face and caught on her lip. It must have been a thrilling new experience, witnessing the Inquisitor in her full glory after a night of decent sleep.

“Enjoying the moment could mean paying for it later,” Cassandra continued to press.

“Hmph,” Olivia snorted, “or, if you decide to fall asleep with a Pentaghast, you could enjoy and pay for it, simultaneously!”

“...You think yourself hilarious, don’t you?”

Olivia shuffled her shoulders a bit, rolling them into the cushion of the blankets and pillows to stretch out against the cast bound around her chest and waist. “I don’t think before dawn.” Her nose scrunched as she closed her eyes again. “Come back in an hour, I’ll have a list of musings for your viewing pleasure.”

Cassandra was quiet. Still, and quiet. Olivia had loosened her grip enough on her arm for her retreat to be painless, and yet, she lingered in the temperate, dewy morning. For as frazzled and disorderly as her disposition was the night before, she appeared to be unaffected.

Finally biting, Olivia opened one eye and peered at her. “Lo and behold, the woman doth hesitate. Has she yet declared her heart a traitor to a warrior’s ethos?”

Cassandra tilted her head over at her again after having stared at the ceiling, perhaps trying to decide on the best course of action. The logic was there and it said to leave, but something was keeping her there. It definitely wasn’t Olivia’s sweet, unsalted personality.

“Such romantic language,” she mused, “from the woman who’s hobby is sneering at those who would see it for its authentic value.”

“I told you I am lucidly incoherent before sunrise.”

Cassandra smirked, reaching and rubbing her eyes with her thumb and index finger in one, slow circle. “I remain unconvinced to stay, even with your genuine efforts to persuade.”

Olivia giggled roughly under her throat, a crooked grin showing on her lips. Oh, she was trying more than she knew. A smart mouth disguised her forlorn heart trying not to sink too heavily through her misshapen ribs just thinking of her leaving.

“How about…” she began, before gently sliding herself closer to her side, keeping on her back as she restored her place: her cheek against the Seeker’s shoulder. Her arm slid and secured itself around hers, hand coming up to rest up near Cassandra’s collar bone region. Letting out a gentle bit of breath she let her eyelids fall together.

Cassandra waited, but nothing else came of the humble gambit. Olivia’s breathing settled into a sleepy rhythm, contented with her argument.

“...I see. We will have to continue to work on your negotiating skills, evidently.”

“I don’t see you jumping out of bed, Seeker. Perhaps you should take notes instead of mock.”

There was a pause of deliberation again. The sun would not race or stop for no woman, and the day’s duties would come along sure enough as the sky provided light for it. But people did not just rise and fall with the sun, replenished and strong of heart, without partaking in that which nourished their spirits. For as much as Olivia’s wisecracking and insistent will sustained itself, the moment...and her in it...it was too much to let go, even for a principled Seeker.

Carefully, she shifted closer to Olivia’s side, keeping aware of the fragility of her position. Once nestled in, she returned her chin back where it was when she awoke before, and let her heartbeat calm.

“One more hour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be my last update on this saga for the year, and probably the next 1.5-2 weeks! This Chapter rounds off an era in Olivia's story rather nicely, so from here, a lot of changes and shifts will be taking place that I am excited to map out and write! Thank you to everyone who has been keeping up with this story through the frequent, feverish updates, the slow burn trials, etc. you're the lights of my life, and I hope you have a wonderful new year's holiday! Olivia will be seeing ya'll in 2019 :)


	51. Lie to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition returns to Skyhold after the siege at Adamant. Olivia has survived her wounds but her mental and emotional fitness remain uncertain, her limits tested by a brisk confrontation between her and Odessa. A month of distance and tumult has pushed reality past the point of no return for the Inquisitor.

_6.11 9:41_

_Alert at once. She is making full recovery. High ranks returning soon, on route. She spends much time with the soldiers. They like her more. Seeker hardly leaves her side. Battle might have shaken her._

_Send for post rotation. Ravens on tail._

\--

Almost 3 weeks since she first woke up, and the Inquisitor’s foremost mental preoccupation was sleep.

At first it was restful darkness, like echoing into a void of respectful nothingness. It was delightful, forgettable, inconsequential. However, as the days of traveling continued to excite her heart, disruptions came up. Their appearance was frightening at first, looking a bit like how her nightmares used to conjure themselves out of the silent stillness. Initially there were colors and sounds muffled as if cast through layers of fabric over her face: embers, purples, browns blurring into one another. Then, they took shape and even became multidimensional. After that there was solid ground beneath her feet, and the sensation of standing and walking became her navigational center. To her relief, this growth in perception was not a prelude of terror. Indeed, Olivia had begun to dream. The Fade welcomed her and her mindful wanderings for the first time since she was a teenager. Senses grew into images, and images into tactile worlds. And every night was a question of whether the terrors awaited her when she closed her eyes. Every morning was a wonder if it would be her last welcoming of a new day with fresh eyes.

But no dream could compare to returning through the fortress gates after all that time: absolutely nothing. Her weary heart had grown to doubt if such a place still existed. After all she had seen, heard, and felt, her life before Adamant felt cast across the Amaranthine. Jogging her horse into the courtyard the first face she saw was Josephine’s; her bright gold robes were hard to miss, especially when the Ambassador took to waiting on the columnar platform overlooking the grounds to welcome back forces. Olivia’s chest deflated underneath her lighter armor she had worn for the sake of her healing injuries. Exchanging one last glance with Cassandra who, of course, rode in beside her.

“At last,” the Seeker sighed, “thank the Maker.”

Olivia raised a brow. “You thank him, I’ll thank the kind man who lent us brisket to eat while stopped before the mountain pass.” She gave Cassandra a tired, but pleasant look to meet her unimpressed one: a common exchange between the two. As the Seeker shook her head, Olivia rode her horse towards the nearest attending groom and tossed her reins forward.

“Inquisitor, welcome back,” the groom said as she took hold of the mare’s bridle, a tricky business with the way she bobbed her head up and down with excitement.

Olivia grinned as she removed her cowl hood, tucking it between her rib and forearm as she dismounted. “Hello, Pala. Thank you, it is good to see you.” It was always a subtle blessing to see people’s faces after witnessing so much death, especially when those faces meant Olivia could get out of the saddle. She who loved horses more than most people could admit to needing a break from her equine companions ever so often – particularly when her ride loved to bolt out from under her when spooked time and time again. War made little free time for mount training.

Pala smiled, going to work on the Inquisitor’s behalf with tucking away the stirrups and loosening the saddle girth. “Did she do right by you?” she asked of the horse.

“Yes, as always. Would you do me a favor, and rub her legs with her liniment tonight on my behalf? I am afraid leaning forward and on my knees is still sore for me.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. It would be my pleasure.” Pala nodded, pulling the rein over the horse’s head and gathering it in her gloved hands. “Take care, my Lady.”

Olivia waved them off with a happy expression. Her horse could retire and be spoiled and that would have to be enough for relaxing gratification. In Olivia’s heart she knew, way before she even spotted the gates to Skyhold, that the homecoming would be a brief respite. Through the crowd she walked, dodging the happy reunions between comrades with a passive smile on her face. The noises, the laughter, the screaming, even. Too much, too sudden. Walking up the stairs where it was substantially quieter and less fast-paced, she at last came face-to-face with the Spymaster and Ambassador. Leliana was first to come forward, though her reserved demeanor paled in comparison to Josephine’s enthusiasm.

“Inquisitor, back in one piece,” Leliana greeted, chin tucked a bit.

“Funny you should mention that, as my ribs look more like a puzzle tossed around,” Olivia replied before chuckling drily. “How has it been? I see the tower has made progress.” The three women all glanced over the Inquisitor’s shoulder then, appraising the structure. Newly reinforced walls, windows, the roof nearly finished. The stone was bright even in the overcast of the day. All that looked uncompleted was the little things: moving in, perhaps another coat of cement in some places – and that was only from what was seen on the exterior. 

Josephine swayed onto one hip, her hand placed on it with smart satisfaction. “Indeed, your Worship, the construction has gone more expediently than once estimated. We had hoped it would be completed for your arrival, but inclement weather created delays. Do be sure, it is planned to be serviceable within the week.”

Olivia returned her attention to her advisors. “Josephine, I appreciate it, but nothing quite compares to returning at long last to familiar faces. I will have patience for one tower.” She bowed her head and then walked past them both up the last flight of stairs to the Great Hall. All the while she knew that they must have exchanged knowing looks between them in the wake of her polite detachment. Olivia could only imagine what such a silent exchange would translate to, if she had the energy.

As she entered the Hall, first it was the warmth of the fires and their smoke that stole from the chimney openings. She walked several yards until she was between the first row of them on either side of the Hall walkway, at which point she stopped. The smoke, the heaviness. It wasn’t aromatic with the stench of burning flesh or hide from armor. Here, here it was wood. Wood and the perfumes of all the socializing nobles. She closed her eyes and inhaled deep: no ash in her face, no freezing rain on her scalp. No cauterizing wounds emanating smells that made your face contort and will shake. Fire had never been more fraught for the Mage Inquisitor who was rumored to spit embers between her teeth – but that was what war had done to her.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine’s voice echoed behind her, “we are prepared for you to take the majority of the afternoon for rest. There is only one matter that I would need your immediate sanction of.”

Olivia’s eyes blinked open. Taking the first of her gloves off, she pivoted on her hip to face them standing side-by-side like a two-person blockade.

“Immediate sanction?” she asked, head leaning onto her left. “Is it that serious?”

Josephine glanced at Leliana with a look of tentative mischief. What had she gotten into this time? The better question may just be which of her former friends decided to show up and paint the fortress red.

“You see, my Lady,” Josephine smiled, taking a step towards her. Her medallion and ornaments shined in the draped light casted down from the Hall doorway. She looked poised and ready to argue. “The demands of war were prioritized, as the rightfully should have, over the observance of specific ceremonies and traditions. You have arrived two and a half weeks into Umbralis – the Inquisition’s forces have largely missed the celebration of Santinalia. Given that you have returned to us safely, ushering in a hard-won victory for our cause, I suggest convening a consolatory affair here at Skyhold.”

Olivia, expecting someone needed to have assassins sent after or treaties torn asunder, flickered her eyes at Leliana. _Is she dancing so artfully around having a belated Santinalia?_ A moment of silent deliberation passed. Shifting her weight squarely onto both feet, she paired off her removed gloves into one hand and slapped them lightly across her thigh.

“A Santinalia celebration at Skyhold? Why not?”

Leliana blew air through her nose. “Josie was just nervous that you would not be one for pomp, considering the circumstances. A lighthearted evening would do well for the people’s spirits. Santinalia is the perfect opportunity to mix faith and festival for the good of morale.”

Josephine gasped, twisting her shoulders to give Leliana a chiding look. “Agh, Leliana, I can communicate my motivations well enough.” There was an underlying giggle in her tone.

Olivia laughed softly, her tone breathy and less emphatic than her typical style. She took a step back, leaning onto the ball of her foot in anticipation of withdrawing from the outside world at last. “It is a good idea, Josephine. The people will appreciate it. Now, if I may, I will retreat and see if I can’t find the Inquisitor wherever she is so that she can relieve the tired, sorry bastard who’s standing in her place lately.”

“Certainly, Inquisitor,” Leliana nodded. “I will have to visit you shortly to transfer some information personally, but other than that, do rest.”

\--

At long last Olivia had nothing in front of her direct path but a bedroom and a lockable door. Her injuries had given her a solid excuse for not wearing her equipment to Cassandra’s standards of snugness, and such an affordance also made it easier for her to remove it. Stripping down fast but with sensitivity to her right side, she got down to her smallclothes and let her busy hands fall loosely to her sides. Laying her head back, she took a deep breath and let the cold air embrace her inch-for-inch. The chill was so pervasive, her lungs stinging and chest aching. It was a most clamored-for depravity. One moment of useless standing felt like an Empire’s prize for battle.

The wounds incurred from her procedure for her ribs – mostly internal bleeding and bruising that needed regular oversight – had healed well. What lingered was an ache between the once broken ribs, light discolorations in her skin from the bruises, and an odd bump from what the Healers said was an over-solidification in her bone healing. It was no more than the size of her middle knuckle, and from head-on it was hardly even detectable. It would go away over time, or at least they ensured it would.

When Olivia wandered to her floor-length mirror, seeing for the first time a complete image of how her body had come out of Adamant, the bump was the least of her fears. What as a bump to a woman’s body, increasingly covered in scars, gashes, purple and red impressions, and missing flesh? The world was taking bites out of her and spitting her back out. A skewed rib would not be the end, even when Sera would joke and try to poke it when she would be around during bandage changes.

If you find the majority of your days unfolding in battle, the least of your concerns will be how the blessing of your survival takes its shape, Cassandra had said. Comforting in her own foreboding, cynical way. More solace than she knew in the moment.

Three entire hours passed with no interruption, only her quarters with four walls and a fireplace that was dormant upon her arrival and easily remedied with the twitch of her fingers. Three whole hours in nothing but a fleece woven robe wrapped around her body, a body that felt lightweight enough to jump and stand on tip-toes. And yet what Olivia’s heart yearned for most was to bundle up on the couch with a book about absolutely nothing relevant to war, strategy, or history of violence between kingdoms. A book about the uses and attributes of botanical products. A book with mostly illustrations and diagrams, and no requests for death counts or material lists. Just beautiful flowers like the ones that got caught in her hair; the ones Theia or Naomi would pluck and blow into her face. Drawings and explanations she could happily forget later by supper: details that she felt no obligation to memorize in order to be an effective leader, knowledgeable Commander, or someone who’s capability “was not like other young southern Circle Mages.”

Huddled in the fetal position with the book in one hand, she drifted in and out of sleep: eyelids fluttering open and shut while the sounds of a crackling fire grew more distant. The wonders of royal elfroot as understood by a scholar who lived more than 30 years ago was endlessly enthralling, so much so she would have to properly appreciate it by sleeping on it after only a few paragraphs.

_Berenice, you know how your Mother feels about you falling asleep in the library. Your posture and eyes will suffer._

He always hid his care behind the guise of something else: pragmatism, orderliness, and most often the strict wishes of his wife for their only child. Olivia’s adulthood harbored many devastations, one of which was hindsight: the way his voice in her memory came to sound so young and impressionable. To an eight-year-old girl it was old and sage in its chastisement; to a woman who knew she would never hear it grow old and petulant, it was evergreen. Evergreen with no hope of reaching farther up into the sky or shading the heads of those below and beloved. Weeks ago, she thought she would join him. But no, she was there: returned and restored with more to be afraid of than before. It was in these hours that she felt most parallel to the side of him she never got to know: the parts that were ghostlier than the epitome of his soul alone.

_Father._

She fell asleep shortly after the third turned page and hoped perhaps she would dream of him. Maker only knew whether that would mean her nightmares had returned.

\--

When she woke up next, it was after another round of dormant slumber. Its simplicity was further emphasized by what she awoke to: sprawled across the accompanying loveseat to the right of her couch was Odessa. She, too, had a book in her custody, one that reminded Olivia of her own that had dropped onto the floor without a hand to keep hold of it. She lurched up, arms locking straight underneath her.

“Odessa…?” she breathed, eyes scanning from her book face-down on the floor to the Mage who had made herself comfortable.

Unsurprised, Odessa looked up from the page she was on and smiled broad, slapping the cover shut. Olivia flinched at the sound, immediately perturbed.

“Olivia, you were sleeping soundly,” Odessa replied with a sweetness, “I didn’t want to disturb such a rare occasion.”

“I’m afraid intent and execution are two different pursuits,” Olivia countered as she rubbed her eyes with the side of her knuckles. “When did you get in here?”

“About an hour ago. You’d been vanished for so long I began to worry you would not come to greet me. You know, it’s only been, what, a month?”

“Six weeks, if we are rounding numbers.”  
Odessa smirked, her blue eyes caught with a playful gleam to them. “I see it has not worn on your spirit the longer you’ve been gone.”

Olivia groaned under the guise of sleepiness, pulling herself upright and gripping her hands onto the edge of the couch cushions. It was full-on dusk, and she had spent all afternoon hulled up in her room without a soul to keep her company or hold her accountable. That was not the problem in her eyes, though, as Odessa tossed the book on the coffee table between them and straightened up. Olivia side-eyed her before rising to her feet, pulling the sides of her robe across her body and pinning them underneath her folded arms.

“I am surprised they allowed you in here with no word of warning,” Olivia observed as she waltzed her way to the small roundtable where the wine jug and chalices were placed.

“We are all friends here, I thought,” Odessa replied. Unsatisfied with her vantage point, she rose to her feet as well, though she remained between the loveseat and the table. “You didn’t think I’d want to see you?”

“No, not at all. I mean, yes, I just…” Olivia stumbled over her words as she poured into two chalices. She shook her head and took a breath. “I had hoped to have time to compose myself from traveling before receiving company, is all.”

The slowness of the moment broke like glass, when out of no where pressure on Olivia’s shoulder formed, unexpected and thus dangerous in its bold assumption. It was like hearing in one breath’s worth of time all the screaming and clashing both far and near. Those senses liked to sneak up on her, too, though she couldn’t fend for herself in the confines of her own head. But she could do it now: dropping the chalice she had in her hand to land with flat, sharp sound on the table, she pivoted fast with her right hand forming a fist. Fire amassed around its strength. She shirked the arm away and raised her weaponized hand high over her shoulder, a frantic exhalation of breath escaping her lips. Vision blurry and adrenaline spiked, she was ready to make the encroached presence pay. Her gambit was defied by Odessa’s clasping hand around her wrist, her other hand going to her other forearm.

“Olivia!” she said, alarmed but not astonished by any means. “Olivia, it’s me!” She leaned her face closer to hers, eyes making piercing contact that was inescapable.

Olivia’s lips quivered, chest frozen with tension. Her aflame hand surged above their heads like a vitriolic sun. Was she going to cast something or throw a punch? The animus in her body language could have gone either way. Odessa didn’t back down, though, and with a release of air from her lungs Olivia let the fire dispel. Slowly she lowered her arm, and once it was chest level Odessa let go. She looked at a loss, though her devotion maintained its austerity.

“Olivia, I—”

“You shouldn’t have snuck up on me,” Olivia snapped. She turned around and grabbed the chalice she had dropped, half-soaked in splattered wine. So much for being graceful in the face of company, then. “Do you not have a care from what I just endured, Odessa?”

“I have a care, or else I wouldn’t be here.”

“Sometimes distance is the greater fealty.”

Odessa huffed. “You look and sound like a jaded warrior enough for me to know distance would only give you what you want: more time and space to get lost in your own thoughts.”

Olivia walked past her, towards the center of the room. When she reached the middle of the large run she spun around, resentment in her shrugging shoulders. “So, I cannot have what I want for once? Seclusion to heal and feel in control?”

Odessa folded her arms, her head tilted onto one side as she watched Olivia’s movements like a hawk. “Olivia, I know enough of what happened. You were gravely hurt. You need to be in the company of those who do not expect you to be the Inquisitor or some invincible, unhuman icon. Don’t shut yourself away.”

“I am not shutting myself away,” Olivia hissed with the cup rim to her lips. “You are the one picking a fight with me on my first day returned from battle. Who is the selfishly indulgent one between us, then?”

“Olivia,” Odessa persuaded, coming closer to her slowly having learned her lesson the first time. “You are wild-eyed. Take a breath and think of what your actions are conveying.”

“I am tired, and I need to be left alone. Are you trying to supplant yourself as my newest advisor now?”

“That has never been my ambition. I want nothing but honesty from you.”

“Then…then leave me be, Odessa!” Olivia at last relented to her own temper, her hand flying out to her side as she took another bitter swig of wine that soured her tongue. “If that is what you want, find it somewhere else. I do not have time to be dissected and pulled apart for all to see, I spent weeks dressed and cared for enough.”

Odessa looked towards the open balcony doorways as a breeze blew through, animating the tapestries hung around them. They were dark: black and purple fabrics that cast out even the most abundant sunshine if they were not gathered and tied out of the way. Now, they moved while the rest of the world – and they – remained painfully in place.

As the winds died down, Odessa uttered her confession. “And to think I allowed myself the delusion that maybe you missed me.”

Olivia had her shoulder facing her as she stared off into the corner of the room, jaw tightly shut. Her hands rested at her sides, fingers clutching the rim of her chalice like bird talons. It took everything in her to roll her lips shut and prevent the most cutting words to be said out of self-defense. She had learned how to defend herself even if it meant killing that which had no intention of killing her.

Her eyes went to the floor. “Odessa, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, you did. That is the thing, Olivia. You always do.”

“Then…” she grit her teeth some more, subduing her avarice. “Then why do you expect anything else?”

She could hear Odessa laugh humorlessly, but the sound only made the impatience and disdain grow inside her chest.

“I have been asking myself the same question for weeks. The only difference is I think I would have the consideration to not ask it in the face of someone showing genuine care.”

“Odessa, you…you…” Olivia halted in her phrase, swallowing both pitiful spit and pride. She went quiet and shook her head, approaching the nearest table to set down her cup. Enough was enough: the wine, the dalliance, the pretending that the sinking ship would get them to shore. “I am glad you are here, because I was going to approach you anyway. This…this arrangement we have? It…it has to end.”

Odessa’s eyes narrowed. Skepticism as always from her. For a time, Olivia had been fond of it as a means of imagining what could be. But if the last month had shown her anything, it was that her fantasies were always broken, just like the bonds that tethered her and Odessa together like a makeshift suture.

“You…” Odessa began, lips rounded, “you have had enough, then?”

“It is not about me ‘having enough,’ it is about what is best for both of us.”

“I have never known someone to know what is best for me without first asking what that would be. Tell me, Olivia, did you harness the power of divine foresight whilst fighting the world’s evils?”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Do not mock me.”

“Someone has to, because you seem to have been polished a great deal in both ego and arrogance.” Odessa’s neck was arching forward now over her tightly-crossed arms. She was not going to give an inch or cede from her side of the room or the argument.

“Odessa,” Olivia breathed low, doing her best to keep a grip on her calmness, “do you see what is becoming of us? Do you see how we cannot be in the same room without being at each other’s throats? You, needing me to be someone I’m not, and me, pretending I could delay the inevitable?”

“And what is exactly the inevitable conclusion? This?”

“Yes, if you must know!” Olivia’s voice raised, sick of the insults to her intelligence. “Odessa, I was never meant for you. I know that used to be exciting for us, but those days are dead and dust in the wind. All we do is fuck and hold onto old wounds. You say we are fine, but the future? It’ll just be more of this, more of me coming and going, each time more calloused and estranged than before. It is unsustainable, don’t you see? The girl who played along, the girl I was…she is gone. Find someone who makes you happy, who is someone you do not have to fight to love – but find her elsewhere, because there is absolutely no possibility that she is here in front of you now.”

Everything came crashing down. The one clumsy domino had decided to fall, unleashing the shoddy infrastructure they had built together with dull nails and half-dried plaster. The Temple was never a Temple, the hideaway never untraceable. The solace never perpetual. Odessa’s face went pale, as it always did when she was unnerved and saddened by something: it was the ice in her, the element she favored. As the woman who had been her lover for months stepped away and back around to face the corner with the desk and bookshelves, Olivia knew she had stuck a knife through the heart she was promised would never be liable to her.

“I could have half this room frozen to match the malice I feel for you in this moment,” Odessa muttered, the coldness in her voice in line with her threat.

Olivia’s eyes softened, staring into the back of her neck and shoulders. The only bare skin on her in her apprentice gowns. The skin that used to make her imagination go wild with where else it led.

“If you did, I would deserve it,” Olivia agreed.

“You choose now to be humble and submissive?”

Olivia grinned sorely and walked closer to her, stopping with only several feet between her and Odessa’s back. “Odessa.”

At the sound of her name, she turned around and faced her. There were no tears, no sad eyes. Only ambivalence at being hit by the storm that was always on the horizon but managed to keep away for this long. Too long. But in her eyes, in her aged complexion, her grown out hair, Olivia saw more than the indignation.

“Odessa,” Olivia repeated, placing a hand on her cheek and another on her folded forearm, “you will always be the first woman who ever dared to love me, and do so despite my false attempts at indifference. For that, you will always have my loyalty. But I care for you too much to lie to you.”

The wrath in Odessa’s eyes receded, much as they fought the rise of her sorrow. Her cheek leaned into Olivia’s hold, and she closed her eyes with one deep breath to conjure patience. The room was growing darker by the minute and embraced by the firelight. The sun had long set on them.

“Dammit, Olivia,” Odessa mumbled, “would it kill you to lie to me?” She then let a soft chuckle go from her throat.

Olivia grinned, leaning onto her toes as she put her lips to Odessa’s forehead, kissing with reverence. A few seconds passed, and she was pulled into a hug, arms wrapping around her neck and pulling her in so tightly her ribs lightly ached at the pressure. But, for all the discomfort, Olivia hugged her right back. Odessa’s warm breath sent goosebumps down her shoulder as her chin tucked against it. There would always be regrets between them: things that could have been said, done, or worded differently. But never would one of those regrets be trying. For as long as Olivia lived, she would never be anything less than thankful for the woman who opened a world to her.

“You are my friend, first and foremost,” Olivia promised, hands pressing against Odessa’s shoulder blades. “Thank you for being here.”

“Oh, hush, you’re getting soft.”

Just as Olivia started to laugh, the door to her chambers opened. She held onto the hug as long as she could, until Odessa was the one to pull away. Olivia offered her one last sincere grin before turning around to face the stairs. As she had promised earlier that day, Leliana appeared.

“Inquisitor, am I interrupting something?” she asked as she came around the rail and towards them. Her gaze focused on Odessa even as her words were to Olivia only, signifying just where exactly her piqued curiosity was concerned.

Olivia was quick to distract attention. “No, Leliana, of course not, I—”

“I was just coming to see if the Inquisitor was well after her journey. As a friend to a friend,” Odessa interrupted, offering her own alibi in the face of the intimidating Sister Nightingale herself. She gave one last look at Olivia before she bowed in Leliana’s direction. “I will take my leave, now, and burden no further. Evening, my Ladies.”

Olivia didn’t correct or amend her explanation, but she did watch her diligently as she saw herself out. As she descended the stairs Odessa gave her one last parting glance, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Whether it was one of adoration, ambivalence, or something in between, was uncertain. But as Leliana shifted her discerning presence towards the Inquisitor in her singularity, she ran out of time to be sentimental.

“Leliana,” Olivia nodded, re-folding her robe across her body for good measure.

“Inquisitor. I assume all is well?”

“Yes, quite well. I understand you wished to speak with me.”

Leliana eyed her, clearly deciding on whether to pursue the lead she had stumbled upon or attend to matters she had brought with her.

“Josephine wished me to pass along the news that the celebration will take place in three days, pending preparations. My business concerns the trouble we pieced together before you left for Adamant. I am afraid the trail has gone cold – I suspect whoever they are followed you to Adamant. I will have my people stay vigilant, but for the time being, I must ask you to take care with the company you keep. Sincerely, this time.”

“How timely, for I have business to broach with you, as well.” Olivia held her hand out in a guiding gesture towards her work desk before approaching it. She came around to the chair’s side and took a gander at the assemblage of work. Leliana followed, stopping front-and-center before her.

“Oh?”

“You recall my friend in the mountains, yes?” Olivia reminded, folding her arms.

“Of course. Do you think there is a connection?”

“I am afraid I do not know. What I do, though, is that it is time for my friends to be more than ghosts to me. I must ask that you divert some of your best trackers to find them. Veronica was here a long time ago but she could not have gotten too far, especially if she is not alone and on foot.”

Leliana’s head tilted. She was intrigued, but not shocked. In all actuality, it was probably in-line with what her hypothetical investigations had been for months.

“Does this have something to do with what happened at Adamant?”

Olivia scanned her desk, suppressing the sensitivity to the situation enough to regulate her resolute attitude. “It does, but it is only one piece. I have sat on my hands for too long out of fear of misstep. I see now my passivity has only compounded what should be settled. I know this seems rather personal of me to ask, Leliana, but I have no choice – they have given me no choice.”

“I will see what I can do, then. I would be lying if I said I was not…interested in pursuing your friend’s lead further. This might produce answers for us for questions we have yet to ask.”

“I hope so. Until then, I would hope you would keep the investigation private. I do not wish for it to become common knowledge that I am ‘hunting’ my former rogue Mages. It may endanger them more than I wish.” Her eyes met Leliana’s, and for a moment she allowed herself to be candidly seen in her despair for what she was forcing herself to do. All along she vowed never to breach her friends’ autonomy or place them in harm’s way for as much as she could help it. Now, she was preparing to do so head-on, the image of Veronica’s selfish rage in her mind.

“…I hate to ask, Inquisitor, given your attachment to them. But, for the sake of my people, what would you have them do should they prove resistant once found?”

Olivia’s mouth opened to speak, but she halted mid-breath. If they did it would prove more about Veronica’s hubris than anything. The idea of being antagonistic towards them filled her with dread. Alas, a practical question was just that.

“Have them say I am dying, and that I have wished for them to come to my side in my final days. Make it believable. If Theia is with her as I suspect she is, her loyalty will do the rest of the convincing.”

“Are you certain? Much time has passed; old bonds may yet prove tested and soured.”

“If they do not descend upon Skyhold like a flock of locusts at the news of my demise, then I will know once and for all that their absence is the true blessing. It is time that the ties that bind me to the past be either severed or reinvented into something better.”  
Leliana stared her down so acutely that even Olivia’s bones felt self-conscious. The tides had shifted in more than one way for the Inquisitor and the skeletons that haunted her every waking move.

“Very well, you Worship. If that is all, I will take my leave. Tomorrow we can debrief about Adamant once I have compiled all allied reports.”

“Yes, thank you, Leliana. I will be seeing you later.”

Bowing her head, Leliana gave one comforting but shallow grin to the Inquisitor before turning around and walking for the stairs. Just as she was about to embark on the first step, however, Olivia spoke up.

“Leliana?” she called after her.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” Leliana replied as she looked over her shoulder.

Olivia stared back at her. Her hands went to the desk, fingertips pressing on the wood. “Later, I will discuss with you what happened in the Fade. If you wish it, that is. The reports won’t do it justice, and…well, I thought it would be…helpful.”

Leliana’s expression grew unexpectedly daunted. The reports from the front were still being compiled and filled in from the allies, after all. They had only just returned that morning. But there had been enough detail transmission for Olivia to understand that she would have more questions to answer than just what would sufficiently fulfill a report on parchment.

“I would appreciate that, Inquisitor.” Leliana finished and then continued onward, not wanting to disclose or disarm any further. Olivia respected it well enough. In her solitude, she was faced with the unavoidable conclusion derived from what she was setting in motion: the time for timidity was over, and so was pretending she was anything less than a woman with blood on her hands. She had slept enough.


	52. When Smoke Settles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Leliana discuss the incident at Adamant and Cassandra's encounter with the Divine, specifically. Though, the conversation does not go according to original intent -- as so often happens between the former Right and Left Hands. Leliana holds up the mirror Cassandra has been avoiding for years to reflect on her actions and internalized negations. Old wounds thought better left untouched come to a head.

The Right Hand was supposed to be ready. She was the fist, the bare brunt of forces malignant or otherwise. Her choices required a courageous heart and logical character. In uncertain times where anything was possible, her steadiness needed to prevail. She had to remain astute enough to do what was necessary with or without certain figures in play, much to her suppressed dismay. On the other hand, it was important to not catastrophize things: to remember that people depended upon their ability to push onward in spite of the unknown. So, when the tragedy came to pass, Cassandra had taken the force of her grief and put it into practice. There would be an outcome of righteous gratification from what had been done. The sky cold fall and mountains perish, but she would forge a way through. It was the closest in recent years that she had ever come to desiring the taste of revenge for the sake of it.

Ever since then, the days passed in ironically slow and impatient ways: grueling with the weight of all that depended upon them, and expedient in its demands. Warriors, indeed any person whose occupation was sanctified violence, did not heal to perfection. From the day they took their first strike or incurred their first injury their bodies and psyches become ledgers of the license they have been granted for what they do. For most, the damage began long before they even picked up a weapon to fight back with. Their lives, their wellbeing, were the tactile price paid for the cause. Mixed that in with faith, and you painted the portrait of a human being who believed in both the divine providence and insignificance of their existence.

These ramifications lurked in the margins of Cassandra’s psyche. The Fade, and the Divine’s likeness they encountered, changed all that. So much so that it prompted the first candid and uninterrupted conversation between her and Leliana over the ordeal as Hands without a body, bones without the marrow they had committed their lives to protecting.

It was the day after they had landed in Skyhold, returned from the Grey Warden fortress and the unending tests on both her resolve and sense of self. The sun was approaching its midday suspension in the sky, scattering the storm clouds away for a time. Sat on the bench with her elbows planted on either knee and Leliana sitting at her side, she had been giving her report in a less bureaucratic fashion.

“The Inquisitor said it was not her position to judge what she had seen, that her education as a Mage says it was but a spirit,” Leliana explained, hand rubbing up her own thigh.

“She said as much when we discussed it on the journey here,” Cassandra affirmed, lowering her head. “She clings to her skepticism even as her life’s fragility is tested beyond measure.”

“Faith does not manifest only when one thinks to speak its name, Cassandra. You and I both have learned that by difficult means.”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed as she gazed across the rotunda, past the hanging cages. What she was looking for was anyone’s guess, including her own. “For the life of me I cannot stop pondering what it is we saw.” She paused, teetering on the choice of whether or not to express what burdened her heart.

“Could we have done something, Leliana? Could we have prevented it? I know you must wonder as I have...as I still do.” Cassandra confessed at last, letting the blood of her regrets flow freely.

Leliana pursed her lips for a moment, shifting her knees more in Cassandra’s direction. “It was not the Maker’s will. But, I admit, I fall into contemplation. To do so is human.”

“Perhaps there were signs...indications, if we had only paused when we decided to push, if we--”

“She would not want us to dwell. She would have wanted what we did, and what we continue to do.”

Cassandra groaned and stood, pacing outward towards the circular wooden rail overlooking the floors below. They had come so far and on so little to begin with. The explosion had both literally and figuratively obliterated any institutional legs they could have stood on to ignite this movement. Alienated from the Orders she revered and swore to, called a heretic, now at the mercy of the histories. All for the sake of what?

“Cassandra,” Leliana coaxed as she remained seated, observing her. “You have denied yourself the ability to pay pain due diligence and perform duties. You rob yourself with no prize to be won, and you wonder why these sensations are not put to rest.”

“I wonder nothing Leliana, I have always known what was expected of us.”

“It was not the Divine’s responsibility to invoke an expectation that you care for yourself.”

Once again the Seeker groaned in frustration, her signature sound of disgust and resentment for the situation before her. Leliana had known it too well to be phased by its intimidation. She also had a knack for cutting to the bone of Cassandra’s insecurities in how she provided for herself: something that had kept the score even between them whenever Sister Nightingale conducted her dangerous and at times underhanded operations.

Cassandra gave into the quiet, her thoughts restrained but bracing against the barriers she had in place between thought and expression. She risked being subjected to another one of Leliana’s emphatic lectures.

“In any case, I did not have you come here so that you may admonish me for my point of view,” Leliana added, reflecting the Seeker’s internal dread right back at her. “I believe as you do that Justinia wished to provide both help and solace in whatever capacity available to her. She would not do so to just evoke lamentation without purpose.”

“Think of what we lost, Leliana. It is not entirely irrational to contemplate the consequences we might not yet even see.” Cassandra played with her hands, fingers pressing the muscle between her thumb and index finger so deep that it grew sore even through her thick gloves. “Those consequences may yet appear in our path as obstacles. More trials to overcome in order to vindicate the necessity of our efforts.”

“That is a peculiar way to say you still grieve.”

“I did not mean to insinu--”

“My goodness, Cassandra, do you really turn from every mirror when you open your mouth? Still, to this day?”

Cassandra turned and glared at Leliana as she rose from the bench to face her at eye-level. The air had shifted from stagnant doubt into brutally kind reckoning. Leliana was always good at pulling rugs and loosening drapes when you least expected her to.

“Leliana, I have not the time or the desire for this conversation. Do not trifle with me.”

“I am not trifling,” Leliana smirked, gathering her hands behind her waist, “it matters what you hide under the facade of resolute productivity. I am the person who knows what is hidden so that everyone else may look forward.”

“Even if it means discovering the trail is of your own convolution rather than fact,” Cassandra refuted, folding her arms against her metal breastplate. “I have not forgotten the liberties you took in that letter you stowed away in my belongings before Adamant.”

“I did not expect you to. In fact, before I heard of what happened, I had expected you to come here to argue about it. I see now you are developing your skills of multitasking.”

Cassandra noticed the subtle upturn in Leliana’s mouth signaling a nerve to smile in the face of her own frustration. It was both appreciated and exacerbating to her already strained grace given the tenderness of the topic at hand. A beam of sunlight shone through the stone windows, breaking from whatever cloud had eclipsed the sun. With it came warmth cast on her leg and hip -- a welcome bit of reprieve from the coldness in both the weather and the memories.

“Deflect as much as you wish. Cullen informed me that you put my advice it into practice.”

Cassandra’s eyes went wide, and then narrowed again as her surprised waned into defensive angst. Commanders suddenly had so much time on their hands to gossip, apparently.

“Cullen has no material from which to derive such conclusions.”

“Am I to understand that the Inquisitor and Seeker bound at the hip for days on end whilst she recovers from substantive injury is neither here nor there?” Leliana protested as she came closer, discerning look and patient though tenacious disposition at the ready.

“She was in need of support, something we are all bound to offer her.”

“Some more willingly than others.”

“Leliana...ugh! Maker!”

Cassandra paced a semicircle again, her hands raised to shoulder level in despondence. The impasse became all the more unavoidable. Leliana took one more decisive step forward, ensuring she would not put anymore distance between them so as the shake the truth that was being chiseled away at.

“If you deny here and now that you care for her even with all your mismanaged principles you will do more harm to your ethos than admitting your affection for a woman could ever do.”

The sentence struck her in the chest like an arrow at point-blank range. All at once, Cassandra halted, her boot scuffing to a sharp halt as she looked back at her once tandemic ally. Maybe the “once” was not appropriate to say, given the obvious insight Leliana still dedicated to both comprehending and counseling Cassandra in her decisions. A year could do many things, but it could not convince hands to absolve themselves of their vital synthesis.

“Leliana, it is not as simple as you would interpret it to be,” she said, a bit breathless in the face of being cut to the quick.

“I never said it was simple. You think me a reductionist irreverent of context and history. You always have. But I think even you know now what the truth is for all of its horrible blessing.”

“We cannot dictate reality to serve our whims. This entire discourse is pointless beyond your seeking to be right about your conjured myths about me.” Cassandra moved past her, then, heading towards the incandescent alter surrounded by candles. A focus point, an iconographic beacon for her when all else failed.

Leliana hung back once she saw where she was heading. Falling back onto devotion: what was known, not what could be discovered. Classic Cassandra. When finally the sulking Nevarran returned her attention having gone for safer ground, she stayed steady.

“Yet you return to it time after time with unresolved aggression.”

“I did not ask to be dissected like one of your persons of interest.”

“If the world worked that way, Cassandra, you would go mad for all the failures that come from you forgetting or failing to ask for every transgression. The Maker does not wait for us to request strength, or patience, or grace, he provides the opportunity to exercise it.”

“You speak with such absolution.”

“I speak with care. Intention laced with doubt is but a humble suggestion.”

Stirrings from below echoed up through the cavernous space: people talking, debating knowledges amidst hundreds of books. A kind, soft sound of laughter that diced through the argumentative atmosphere. The staring between them severed, and Cassandra stepped to the side to give Leliana the shoulder quite literally.

“Do you think she would cast you to the margins for what you keep denying yourself?”

The question Cassandra had always dreaded, the precedent she steered from at every given opportunity. The one she thought now obsolete given her death, for character judgments did not matter to those passed on. They were the coping mechanisms of those they left behind, and Cassandra had better things to do than allow herself to do just that.

“The Divine did not ground her philosophy in exclusion. But she also did not promote licentious behavior.”

“Define licentious.”

“Leliana, I am not embarking on this debate with you. It always comes back to this with you and your machinations. Not everything is a tangled web of sentimentality.”

The Spymaster pressed on, brow furrowing. “Cassandra, you do see the writing on the wall, no?”

Cassandra’s temples pulsed. They had orbited around the great rift for so long, day in and day out. Shelving it in order to carry out decisive agendas. But Cassandra was always the one on the boundaries of the epistemological ether Leliana and Justina conferred. As her eyes cast their focus down to the side, Leliana’s scratching on the veneer was getting somewhere.

“You withhold from yourself just as you wish she had done.”

The Seeker whirled around to confront her. “That is...that is ridiculous!”

“Oh? Then why is there resentment in your eyes? The same tired look I have seen in you for years. The place where you stop before coming too close to the reality you do not wish to see. The Divine you served, the woman who’s supposed centrism you’ve asserted. Our leader who trusted you to caution where she created. What is more devastating to an Andrastian such as yourself than realizing you yet harbored disapproval for those you exalted.”

Twenty years of her life expended. Almost ten year’s worth of storing away opinions and thoughts best left unsaid between them, specifically. When people died, you were supposed to mourn all the things left unsaid, all the experiences left unshared. Cassandra’s discipline had done well to cover up the relief she felt at never having to face the mirror.

“You have always sneered at me for daring to consider precedent -- the brevity of our actions. Not all consciences are as romantic as yours and the Divine’s were, Leliana. I am not apologetic that I had to be the one to remind you, though it cost me.”

“What would it have costed you to wonder what could be if you just got out of your own way?”

“It would cost me years of dedication to an institution that has defined my life, Leliana. Have you always assumed I was without regret, without sincere intent to have my voice be heard? Do you not believe I had goals? That I rose to my role without a single ambition for good?”

Leliana shook her head once. “You had ten years before I was ever of consequence, before Justinia was named to lead. Ten years to pursue those ambitions you held if you had them at all.”

“Our duty is to serve the people’s welfare and not our individual hungers for power. Most Holy knew that when she ascended just as she knew it at the time of the Conclave.”

“And we have done so: we have also enacted an Inquisition, the first in Ages, indicting the powers that be for what they have done to the world. You battle with the possibility of you being remembered as a heretic, Cassandra, but you have not once stopped to consider that even heretics can be shackled to tradition.”

“What does your need to aggravate old wounds and perceived slights have anything to do with the Inquisitor, or my behavior? Did you invite me here to add insult to injury like you are so proficient at achieving?”

Leliana blinked and folded her arms. Her expression softened by an inch, so slight anyone who knew her less would not have picked up on it. But Cassandra could identify a mood shift almost like a sixth sense, much as everyone gave her flack for being oblivious and hard-headed.

“Because I see you making the same mistake with the Inquisitor as you did with Justinia,” Leliana finally confessed, getting down to the bottom line. “But now the implications are far worse.”

Cassandra scoffed. “In what way is it worse?”

“Because, Cassandra, you have fallen for her and you will punish her for it just as you have punished yourself. If something happens to her you will provide the same caveats to her legacy as you have done for the Divine. Only with her, you will be driven by the need to hide why it was she was so remarkable that even you could not resist her. Your efforts of austerity will erase the woman you love and replace her with the woman you followed. Her past, her methods of survival, her crimes -- you cannot fathom loving her as you do with the knowledge of it all, and it will haunt you. Her destiny may cut short her life, but in your efforts to restore the integrity you implicitly believe her lacking, you promise the death of her memory as she would have wanted it.”

She had persisted in her monologue even as Cassandra’s eyes grew red. Never was there a more unsettling sight than a woman like the Seeker going to blows with tears. When she finished the last sentence, a chilling gust of wind enveloped them. Just enough force to make the fringes of Cassandra’s short hair dance. What was there to do, now? Burned and brutalized by Leliana’s bluntness, no prayer or chant could cover her. Her mouth opened, but she could only think to close it again and stare at the ground. Her muscles relaxed out of despondency rather than ease.

“Leliana, you have crossed lines unmitigated before,” she breathed low, “but this time you have done so without hope of vindication. In the future, cater to your prophecies like your morality: close to your chest and untraceable to no one outside of your own self.”

Even when rebuked, Leliana maintained her assuredness. She did not move one single inch in either direction as Cassandra let her hands fall to her sides, bundled in fists as she made her way to the stairwell. The Seeker, like the midday breeze, was nothing to be scared of in a flustered state.

“She has dismissed her mistress,” Leliana threw in at the last moment, peering over her shoulder and from the cover of her hood.

In spite of her quiet mania of anger Cassandra stopped in her tracks. Keeping her attention towards the escape, she lowered her head. “Is that your way of telling me now is my chance? Or mocking my frustration?”

Leliana stepped aside. “The woman tasked with heroism has pushed away the one person who could provide personal solace and remind her of who she used to be before duty called upon her. You tell me, Cassandra, what that most sounds like. Or should I say, who?”

Cassandra glanced a bit in return, her expression full of dismissive fury. Her eyes were still red and swelled with tears, but she was managing to fend off an unearthly breakdown out of sheer spite. It was not the time to make concessions and give Leliana the satisfaction she would so easily grant herself with or without Cassandra’s allowance. She proceeded down the stairs leaving Sister Nightingale to tend to her other works. Reaching the floor of the library hall she wasted no time in seeking out the next row of stairs. But, just as she could visualize the hall, someone bumped into her with an alarmed shriek as they came out of one of the nooks.

It was one of the Mages, one she knew from before after her stint helping them sort new shipments of books. Young, with curly and thick red hair and olive skin.

“Seeker! My Lady!” the woman chirped as she stepped back and out of her way.

Cassandra halted, watching the three books she had in her arms fall to the ground. Feeling the swelling of tears grow in her throat, Cassandra took a stiff breath and reached down for them.

“Oh, no, my Lady--”

“Be careful,” Cassandra said, curt and with no more or fewer manners that what was required. Stacking the books on top of one another she held them out with both hands, face tucked away so as to conceal her distress. The Mage stood by, still in shock, until after what felt like an eternity passed and she took them from her.

“Thank you, my Lady,” the woman grinned. “You are kind.”

“It is nothing.”

No need for further engagement with anyone or anything else, Cassandra left the woman behind to marvel at her surpassing the low bar set for people like the Seeker and their treatment of Mages. _She_ couldn’t even stumble into someone without being faced with how Olivia had influenced her, how she had changed the rules. Stealing down the last flight of steps she hurried through Solas’s chamber, not greeting or bringing attention to herself. Thankfully he was preoccupied with one of his peculiar murals, his back toward her as she sped out through the door to the battlements rather than the one to the hall. She might be in the hall, and she was the last person that needed to encounter Cassandra reeling from years of unchecked and unhonored emotion.

Going through and slamming the door behind her, she pressed her back against the wood. Before her was the elevated mountainside, breathtaking from vantage points such as the ones the battlement walkways offered. Though in their majesty all that was was time and space that could provide no escape. No one could run from death, just as no one could hide from life. But it was only then that Cassandra detested the nature of transparency in one’s mortality.

A single, small tear broke from the outside corner of her eye. She then exhaled in a rigid gasp that betrayed her stoicism. There would be no clemency.


	53. Tides That Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the belated Skyhold Santinalia has arrived. Olivia puts on her best and bravest face in order to appreciate the celebration, and encounters several of her allies as they attempt to do the same. A chance conversation with Cullen confirms some of her fears of herself, though it proves she is not alone. Cassandra displays odd behavior for someone known for being constantly composed.

_18th Umbralis, 9:41 Dragon_

_Journal,_

_I have stared at you for two days now trying to convince myself to write what I have felt, seen, and heard these past six weeks. Every time I have grown close to picking up the quill, the images in my head become so heavy that I must pull away. For the first time in years sleep is more comforting than being awake, and I am unsure of whether I like it that way, now. At least in my sleepless life, I was unafraid of the dark. Things are not so simple._

_I have decided to move writing in your pages to my morning routine when I am in my best mood. Tonight is the delayed Santinalia celebration Josephine has pulled together. There are times when I think she, too, has magical abilities. I wish I could be as effective and temperate as she is. Alas, I’m afraid I am meant to do everything in a furious fit or nothing at all._

_Journal, I do not feel myself. It is as though I have been reduced to my most primal instincts: hunger, anger, sadness, and captivation. I cannot pay attention to most situations for more than several minutes without my mind wandering, and council meetings are painful to endure. I make decisions so curtly and without deliberation that even I feel like I cannot keep up. I am scared that I may hurt someone or myself without thinking. I wish I could retreat and understand myself, but as it stands, there is no where for me to hide. What would they think if the leader they all claim to be invincible looked at her own reflection as if she were her own most unpredictable antagonist?_

_If anyone else reads this for whatever reason, I hope they do so with compassion. I have suffered much and my head makes the world’s mess seem like a paradise. Enough for now._

_OBS_

\--

Everyone was waiting for her. They always waited for her. But on this night, Olivia could only blame herself for feeling resentful towards it. Santinalia was always a time of opulent celebration and kind tidings in Orlais. There, Santinalia meant being grandiose and polished, ready to dance the night away both out in the open and banquet halls. The holiday was not the spectacle as much as the people were: gifts both bogus and theatrical paraded through the streets for days. Once, her aunt got an entire stable of horses, each one wearing a more ornate and expensive bridle than the last. One horse was even painted blue. The reason? She looked best in it. As if wearing blue riding clothes, having a blue saddle, or wearing a blue mask did not count as enough. Her gift was only eclipsed by what she gave in return to the cousin who had afford it for her: a quaint stabbing at breakfast before the man could put his first bite in his mouth. To no one’s shock, the dagger’s color was the tell as to who censured the surprise. Blue was, unfortunately, never his color. Safe to say Olivia was content to know this hesitated social engagement was as far from the Capitol’s charades as she could be.

Proceeding down the Hall towards the doors which would take her to the outdoor goings-on, she found Dorian arising from the door to the library. The man hardly tore himself away from the pursuit of knowledge. It was one of the few personality quirks he and the Inquisitor shared.

Olivia smiled, chin tucked close to her neck. “Found a reason to go along with the maddening crowd for once?”

The Tevinter Mage sauntered towards her, arriving at her left side with ease. “Inquisitor, you should know by now that no party pre-exists in my absence.” He was wearing a nice jacket, sleek-looking black fabric with accents of green and blue silk. Josephine must have delivered on her connections.

“Not even Santinalia? How does one even celebrate such a holiday in the Imperium?” the Inquisitor inquired as they walked at a glacial pace towards the inevitable throng of faces, music, and lights.

“Santinalia is celebrated as all holidays are in Tevinter: overspending and maniacal conjecture concerning one’s children. Occasions which inspire generous proximity between sulking relatives raises the premium on family disappointment.”

“Ah, sounds familiar,” she lamented with a sardonic tongue.

“Certainly not. Even we hear of the preposterous traditions in the Empire. It leavens the mood between talks of philanthropic crookedness.”

Olivia squelched a laugh in her throat – Dorian was so brutal on his own nation that it at times made her appear a patriot for her own. The sensation was emphasized by her attire: a tea-length burgundy gown, long-sleeve with a shoulder-to-shoulder v-neckline reminiscent of Imperial garb. On her tucked and braided head of hair sat a wreath of leaves and poinsettia flowers matching the deep color of the fabric. She looked ready to dance and frolic like a muse, stuffed and cinched as a noblewoman should be. Despite this, her mood was assuaged little.

“I am afraid I will not be curating the entire Empire’s hunger for gratification. I am committed to temperance on this fine Santinalia’s eve.”

Dorian’s brow skewed as the came within a few steps of the arching doorway. Differences or not, Olivia had never been afraid to stand alongside him in whatever public capacity unfolded. There were worse things to be than allied with a Tevinter with an eye for change; for one, perhaps a daughter of an Empire whose pedigree was built on just as many sins as his.

“Inquisitor, if I may. Before you face the unwavering and drunken masses to kiss babies and give toasts to whomever the dead livestock on the table were killed in the name of…”

“Hm? What is it?” Olivia turned to him, coming to a halt.

Dorian faced her, and his expression of jest subsided in favor of a more authentic one. “I may chide you for your illustriously shortsighted enculturation, but you are still my friend, one whose welfare matters, when all is said and done. You must not forget that there are still circumstances where you can find yourself among more friends than enemies.”

Olivia watched him, endeared by his sudden stake in heartfelt kindness. She had always seen it in his subtle comments, passing remarks, the undertone in his clever quips. Only then did he admit to the ingredients within his attention towards her. With all that had happened to distance herself from the present moments, Dorian was as grounding of a force as anything for her shaken faith.

“Dorian,” she said as she reached her hand and rest it on his forearm, “I never doubt such realities when I am in your company.”

Pleased with himself immediately, and who knows, maybe with her as well – Dorian grinned and folded his arms. “There, now you can say the Mage known by the dastardly Pavus name did, in fact, show the makings of human decency.”

“Oh, right,” Olivia’s brow furrowed as she teased, “I am surprised you finished the performance with a straight face given the arduous effort it involved.”

“Tongue-biting and years or practice suppressing one’s true emotions would provide the skills, Inquisitor. But I am afraid I do not have to inform you of that gruesome notion.”

“No, that goes without saying. Let us be off to find more pleasant truths, then, hm?”

Dorian shook his head once, shifting to face the top of the stairs. “Pleasant? I’m not subjecting my life to dangers for pleasantries. If I must raise the dead to inspire life in this evening I will blame your defection from fun entirely.”

\--

The gathered welcomed the woman of the into their fold with delight. After descending side-by-side with Dorian down the stairs to crowds and warm cheers, Olivia came face-to-face with the spectacle Josephine had put together: tables strewn around both the upper and lower courtyards illuminated by strings of paper lanterns, dotted around the open ground allotted for dancing. And boy, was there dancing. Every song was a different cultural staple, so versatile that the Inquisitor wondered how Maryden had time for such prolific practice. Luckily as she approached the source of the music, she saw that the Bard was not alone to carry the tune: assembled around her were drummers, pipe and flute players, and even another mandolin player. It was a jovial sight, the pairing of their concerted music and the spinning couples. For the first time in weeks, Olivia felt like the ghost of who she once was yet lingered.

The decorations were most reminiscent of Orlais: golds, blues, and pastels in both fabric and metallic fare. Wreaths of ferns and flowers centered every table, with several larger ones hung on the lanterns’ support beams installed for one night and one night only. Josephine’s platonic love language was making one feel at home in times of social exhaustion, among other talents. 

A lively song began to play, the whistling of flute enjoined with Maryden’s strings. People laughed and cooed as you do when you hear a classic tune you hadn’t hear in ages. They quickly paired off for another round, and through their commotion Olivia spotted a friendly face: a certain blonde elf with one leg of her tights tucked up higher than the other and hands fidgeting. _Now, what could she be fretting about?_

She made her way to her, dodging the waves and piecemeal invitations to converse with the utmost politeness she could come up with. At last she arrived at her side facing the dance floor, nudging her in the shoulder. Up close, certain truths became visible: Sera had flowers in her hair, tucked around her ears. They were tiny blossoms, humble but pretty. Could it be that the one rogue spirit Olivia had come to know as shamelessly unyielding had questioned whether her appearance was enough for the occasion?

“And here I believed you would adorn yourself with your best dancing dress,” the Inquisitor teased, her eyes scanning the crowd.

“What?!” Sera flinched, glancing at her like she had just told her demons were afoot. When all Olivia had to offer was a smug eye, she growled and folded her arms. “Oh, sod off.”

“What’s got you all silly?”

“Nothin’! None of your business. I’m just…just enjoying it all. Right. Yeah.”

Olivia chuckled low. “Sera, you hate parties where the finery is worth more than the ale.”

Sera leaned away, scuffing her foot in the dirt. She had a sorry look on her face as if she knew she didn’t cover her tracks well enough. That, or she was incapable of doing so given the present company.

“You’re talkin’ shite. I—”

“Is that so?” Olivia replied smoothly, “then why are you wearing a tunic shirt with no holes or stains on the hem from you wiping your mouth after a meal? And your hair, are those…blossoms from the floral arrangements Josephine had brought in?”

Sera went stone-cold quiet but with a bitter look on her face. Olivia followed her gaze through the crowd as it seemed to anxiously lock on one specific area. The source of her friend’s anxiety became quite crystal clear when she found the Arcanist, Dagna, through the shifting figures of party-goers. She was chatting happily amongst a couple over people, ale pint in hand. Her expression just as her disposition always was: an utter delight. Rather than make a big deal over it, Olivia grinned coyly and continued to watch the dancers. 

“You know, Dagna loves corny jokes.”

“I know she bloody well—” Sera choked back her admonishment too late. The trap had been set and stumbled upon. Olivia bit her lip to squash her giggle and remain as sensitive as she could to her friend’s precarious circumstance.

“You should go talk to her,” she muttered against her shoulder.

“I am! I want to. I mean. Yes. I have.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, I did!”

“When?”

“…Two days ago.”

“Sera!” Olivia gasped softly, tilting her head in her direction. “That does not count. You are one of the most confident people I have ever known. What makes you so frightened now?”

Sera bit down on her tongue and twiddled her thumbs some more in front of her waist. All around them people were partaking in merriment and unabashed glee. This should have been her element: plenty of opportunities to prank and be mischievous. Her playfulness had been conquered by an emotion stronger than its hold on her.

“I…I dunno,” she quarreled, “I just. She’s…she’s just so…”

“…So what?”

“Smart! And…and pretty. She says things and they make no sense, but she says that’s the point. What’s up with that? How can you know what you’re doing, and not at the same time? It’s ridiculous!”

Olivia’s brow lifted. “Your issue is that she is smart about things that are unorthodox?”

“I don’t give a damn about docks and their ‘orthiness.’ I know women can be confusing. I know they are bloody smart. I just…I didn’t know they could be smart like her.”

Olivia folded her arms gently across the chest of her fleece gown. Sometimes it paid to be the person on the outside looking in, especially when it came to matters of the heart. To Sera, the whole thing was a sordid and confounding mess of thoughts, nerves, and feelings. To her leader who had come to know her as both a mentor and companion, it was anything but.

“Sera, you are one of those women. You are smart about things no scholar, no war General, no Emperor could hope to know. You know people just as you know justice. You are also a slayer of demons and villains that most everyone in the world only read tales about. If there is anyone that could properly appreciate someone like Dagna, it is you. Now, stop finding reasons to be in your own way, and go! Go and have fun, it is Santinalia!”

Olivia paired her wisdom with a pat on Sera’s shoulder, to which Sera slouched and stepped forward clumsily. She was hesitant at first – cheeks blushed a bit in the face of flattery.

“Inquisitor, I…”

“No ‘Inquisitor,’ just go!” Olivia smiled, waving her hand to shoo her off. “I will want to hear all about it tomorrow.”

Sera looked back at her, her palms flattening out against her sides. One last moment of encouragement as she teetered on her toes.

“…Thanks…” she mumbled at last before she started off on her important mission. Her liftoff made Olivia’s heart skip a beat in anticipation. In times of despair it helped to see ones you cared for take chances at happiness. Living through their eyes was a more dependent medicine than anything found in an apothecary bottle. Though, it did not come without its bittersweet side effects: one of which was getting into ‘trouble’ with the ones who were more sensitive.

This time around, Cole did not appear out of thin air; rather, he was visible in his approach to her right side as any person could be. It was so normal that Olivia had to do a double take just to ensure it was him and not someone who had borrowed his outfit.

“Cole! Happy Santinalia."

“Inquisitor…why is there a plant on your head?”

She giggled, lacing her hands on either side of the decoration. “It is a wreath, Cole. Like the ones I wore in Orlais for the holiday.”

He looked away, chin tucking and concealing his face under his hat. Once, Olivia used to be concerned as to whether he was paying attention when he looked like that. Now, she had accepted that whether he was paying attention was not the end all, be all of questions.

“Would you like to….try it on?” 

“Is there a way to fail?”  


“No, but you may like wearing it. Here,” Olivia pulling the accessory from her head to reveal an ornately braided head of blonde hair underneath. Turning to face him with it held out in both hands she waited for him to do the honors. Instead he stared off to the side thoughtfully towards the crowd behind her.

“So much offering. Offering without getting things back. The one tradition you do not dislike, but you feel unworthy.”

Olivia’s smile softened as Cole removed his hat. He had fairer hair than she, and thinner – but she liked it. It was soft despite everything. She took his hat from him, clamping down on the rim as she handed off the wreath.

“It is just like a hat, but with a hole through the middle,” she explained.

“Then what…is the point?” Cole inquired, holding it in front of his chest and examining the frilly leaves.

“Just to wear it, I am afraid,” Olivia giggled. “Go on, try it!”

Cole hesitated for one more moment, eyeing her for a half-second. Then, slowly and carefully, he raised it like a crown over his face and up atop his head. The hole was a bit larger of a fit on him, and it slid down further than where it rested on Olivia’s head. But, besides that, it looked rather splendid.

“Ah! See, how does it feel?”

“It pokes and sticks, but it has no sticks in it.”

“You get used to it, if you do not pay attention.”

He glanced upwards as if he could see atop his own head, his body otherwise still. It was like he was balancing it on his head, fearful that it would fall. Olivia admired his gentility.

“You are used to sticks and pokes,” he concluded as he removed it from his head. “It belongs to you.”

Surrendering happily, Olivia nodded and exchanged the hats back to their original owners. She then stepped back to face the party as she re-positioned the wreath atop her own pretty little head, completing her outfit and making it as if nothing had ever changed.

“Do you like Santinalia, Cole?”

“It is noisy. Many virtues, translations of rituals and people’s wishes. One holiday is many, one name too small. But people pretend they see the same one.”

“I agree. But perhaps that is what makes it so extraordinary.”

“One way is not the way. One telling is not a truth. She wants to give him a sword, but he wants a book. He can’t do anything with a sword. They are too big to place on saved pages.”

She chuckled as her gaze went from face to face in the crowd. Everyone was conversing with so much cheerful exuberance. It was hard to believe just weeks ago most of them were standing in the face of oblivion half a world away. Olivia wouldn’t blame someone for wanting to turn tail and run after that, and yet they were all here, all steadfast. Josephine was right to have done this.

And, of course, some of her closer allies were making their rounds and doing their best to mingle. Dorian and Vivienne on the outer edge of the crowd, chalices and hand, faces unamused but interested. Across the way, Varric was talking story to several scouts who clamored to hear if the books were all true. Then, to the left side, there was Leliana and Josephine also taking in the fruits of her labor. Good, as it should have been. Hopefully Sister Nightingale was reminding the Ambassador not to fret over details and let the celebration be whatever it was meant to be.

Olivia sighed as contentedly as she could manage. “Cole, why is it you stand at my side?” she asked, lacing her fingers together.

“The place is too thick. Too many people, too many noises. There’s no way to know, no way to know it won’t be like it was before. You’ll be without shield and staff, without what can save you. There’s no way. No way out. No way forward. Hands pull you, one hooked finger from each, like how she’d lace your corsets. It itches. The breathing stops.”

There was the foundation underneath it all. She knew before he even showed himself that it would be the boundary line untraceable to no one except him. Cole, dear Cole, always knew.

She swallowed stiffly and tried her best to keep a face of pleasant entertainment on. “It has been this way for weeks.”

“Longer than that.”

“…Alright, months.”

“The grass has long been growing. It survives the winters when it should die. It is taller than your heart now. You won’t wander where you used to run. Longer.”

Olivia’s breath caught itself on a stray ache in her side. Her injury was infantile in comparison to the wounds Cole was addressing. But not all of them were as literal and distinguishable as broken ribs healed and pieced together like a broken sculpture. Some didn’t even hurt at all until they did, stealing your ability to see and feel outside of their domain. They had led her there, to the grass – the metaphorical no-man’s land where she could see no escape. Breathing became more difficult. Her heart raced. The open air began to close in with invisible walls.

“Why are you—”

“This will be the way.”

“I…” she cracked, her chest growing more discontented. “I need a moment. Excuse me, Cole.”

She dipped behind him and went for the first door she could visualize – the one that led to the forge. Expediently she vanished from the scope of the lantern lights and into the marginal night, hand reaching for the knob and twisting. She slid in like a thief needing an escape route. Careful to shut the door with no major noise to draw attention she fell back against the doorway and exhaled the pent-up air in her lungs. So this was how life would be for her, now: no happiness, no spontaneous adventure without the ghouls in her mind to pull her back. She would be easy to pick apart like a limping animal in the woodlands, death a mercy and life marginal. Even for a Santinalia.

In the blink of an eye everything was spacious and unassuming, until it wasn’t. Her eyes locked on the bright forge fire that remained lit like a hearth. There was a man standing there, leaned up against a support beam and eclipsing it.

“Cullen?” she asked, pushing herself up off the stone wall.

The Commander looked over his shoulder. His face was calm for someone all alone and detached from the main attraction, as if that was naturally where he was supposed to be.

“Inquisitor,” he asked, brow lowered, “don’t you have a party to entertain?”

Olivia placed a hand on her stomach and came forward into the firelight. The torches posted on the beams and walls surrounding the room were left dormant. It occurred to her that maybe there was a reason for it.

“I do. But I…I found myself in need of a break,” she admitted as she arrived at his right side. “So much dancing and laughter can take a toll if you are not careful.”

Cullen grinned crookedly as he eyed her. “I see. Well, you’re more put-together than I ever could be.”

“I…yes! I must thank the woman who did my hair.”

“…Inquisitor?”

“And the gown, the gown is so tight, I don’t think I could breathe the wrong way without it—”

“Inquisitor.”

Olivia stopped finally, mouth agape as she first looked to him, and then away. Self-consciousness never looked good on her, even if she was decorated well. Giving in and bailing on her lie, she exhaled sharply and slouched against the opposite beam. He was wearing a dress coat, military style. That cape and fur of his was no where to be seen for once – Olivia wondered if she had fallen and went unconscious again.

“It is the noises, isn’t it? At first, that is,” he asked out of nowhere, catching her a bit off balance.

“They—y-yes,” she breathed hopelessly, eyes glazing a bit with the reflection of the flames in them.

“Then the people. They overwhelm you. You try to play along, but their attention is grading.”

“And the way they are so focused on me, like I cannot—”

“Like you cannot move an inch without them knowing of it. Then you wonder why—”

“Why it is they care so much, and you fear they are…that they…”

“That they are hunting you.”  


Their fluidity took Olivia’s breath away. It also terrified her: she had long known Cullen struggled with demons both literally and psychologically. Now she knew the awful truth of herself: she had incurred wounds as he had, those unseen and insidious in their effects. The man she swore to never have anything in common with, the one who could teach her nothing she would want to know. She glanced at him with a sorry look, but he only grinned.

“This is the state of war, Inquisitor,” he remarked. “Celebrating something like it is the inside joke no one tells you about.”

“…Then it doesn’t get any better?” 

Cullen shrugged. “What would you understand as better?”

“That I can laugh again without feeling defenseless…” she replied, the candor in her surprising them both.

Cullen paused, shifting his weight between his feet, tucking one leg behind the other. “I can’t say. There will always be something. Just when you turn back and believe there is enough distance between you and what happened, it is waiting for you on the road ahead.”

“That is…” she was at a loss. She rubbed her arm, feeling the friction of her skin against the thick gown sleeve. “I thought I knew what it was to be haunted.”

“We all do, Inquisitor,” Cullen conceded, “the mind and the soul are…interesting places.” 

“You’re telling me.”

They stayed there for a minute or two admiring the simple fire that yet survived after not being stoked or refueled for an hour at least. Olivia had the inclination to restore its luster, but something in her cautioned her not to. For whatever reason, the fire needed to run its course. She was content to let it go even if it meant darkness promised itself on the other side. Inspecting Cullen’s profile out the corner of her eye she wondered how often he found himself in a similar disposition: how often he found himself both ambivalent to the unknown and at the mercy of it. However, like clockwork, her sensitivity to being missed recalled her attention to lighter, bit still consequential, concerns.

“I should…I should return to the courtyard. I am sure Josephine will be eager to know what I think of it all.”

“Makes sense, she was unstoppable these past few days. Her at the council meetings alone, Maker’s breath—”

“I know, huh? Spinning fabric choices while listing requisition treaties. I wondered if it was all some running gag her and Leliana threw together to set my nerves off. Then I thought perhaps she had lost a bet.”

Cullen chuckled, clearing his throat to combat the hoarseness. They then looked at one another. At last, there was no underlying anger in Olivia’s eyes for the man who had seen their forces through unspeakable challenges. Just understanding, and sorry ego.

“Take care to enjoy yourself tonight, Cullen,” Olivia wished him. “Whatever shape that takes.”

He bowed his head once, grinning on one end of his mouth. “Likewise, Your Worship.”

She gave a light smile before going back from whence she came, walking slowly but restored in her bravery. There was something about walking tall even when you felt afraid, as if pretending was the way to authenticity. If she just kept acting like it – following Theia’s long-tested advice of looking the part – her will would return. It just had to.

She glanced back at Cullen’s pensive stature one last time before pushing the door open. As she made her way out the door, though, she bumped into another hurried body: this time a woman by the sound of the gasp at their impact. Standing back and shutting the door again she saw Cassandra, looking frazzled as if caught with her pants down.

“Cassandra?” Olivia smiled, eyes whirling. “Are you alright?”

“Inquisitor!” she gasped, hands going to her sides rigidly. “I…I am fine.”

“You are in a rush. Is the fish not sitting well with you?” Olivia teased, flattening out her gown skirts.

Cassandra’s eyes went from side to side as she scoured the dirt around their feet, avoiding eye contact. “No, not at all. I am…just…I am just tired.”

Olivia tilted her head and came forward, poised with care. The Seeker looked positively radiant despite the look of mortification on her face: another military style coat, slacks clean and fresh to match. The color to both was a dark blue that matched her complexion rather well. Someone – or rather, two women with maniacal abilities to get people into formal wear – chose well for her. 

After having a split second to give her the once over, Olivia placed her hand on Cassandra’s shoulder and tried her best to link eyes. “You, admitting to being tired? Are you certain?”

Cassandra froze. “Inquisitor, I—”

“Why are you looking away like that? Am I too Orlesian in aesthetic for you?”

“Agh, no! Not at all,” she corrected as she finally looked up and back to her. Her eyes glimmered with something in them that was not confidence nor seriousness. Something new and rare that Olivia had not seen since the disaster at the Temple: anxious, unstable.

Olivia smiled a bit to comfort. “Then what is the matter? I had hoped to bully you into a dance!”

Cassandra’s lips parted, and a wistful breath escaped them. “You…? Agh, I…I am not one for conversation…or dancing. Forgive me, I must go.” She then pulled away from Olivia’s hold, making for the door behind her.

“Cassandra!” Olivia said after her, but she was only met by the sound of the door opening and closing again. Just like that, the Seeker was gone and withdrawn from the scene quicker than water through open palms. Standing there by herself, brows raised and mouth open for words that were now useless, she felt like maybe pinching herself would be an appropriate reaction. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Surely, social functions were not this phasing for the former Right Hand of the Divine – the jokes couldn’t have been that true.

_Well, I hope whatever it is that’s gotten into her, Cullen isn’t offensive company for,_ she thought to herself as she fixed the blasted wreath on her head. Turning back towards the party she saw another friendly face heading towards her. Hopefully this time it wouldn’t be to shake her like a gang of bandits. Then again, Blackwall would never do such a thing.

“Ah, Warden,” Olivia said, shrugging her arms. “Tell me, does my breath have a particularly offensive odor, or do you have an idea of what has spurred the Seeker to reclusion?”

Blackwall halted, brow furrowing. “I, uh…no, Inquisitor. I mean…it is not my particular impression.” He looked over her shoulder at the door where Cassandra had escaped, at a loss. “The Seeker? Last I saw she was standing by by the dancefloor. Cole was talking to her, I believe.”

Olivia jerked her head. “Cole? But she…well, she tolerates him.”

“Did she do something to offend you?” he asked, pulling on the hem of his dress coat.

“No, no. I suppose I will have to see about it later. Anyways…” she shook her head, blinking to refocus. “How may I help you?”

Ever the obliging gentleman, Blackwall straightened up, posture going right and grin forming through his combed beard. “Oh, well, I was just coming to ask if you would do me the honor of dancing with me?” His request was humble and accommodating. She could have said “no” and he would still be loyal and uplifted in mood. She appreciated that about him, which is why she grinned and did a subtle curtsy.

“Yes, Blackwall. I would be thrilled.”

He grinned and gallantly offered his hand, and she took it with ease. Making their way into the fray, Olivia couldn’t help but look back towards the second-floor windows of the forge. There was no light, and then, as if waiting for her to see, there was: subtle candle flame, dim but noticeable. She turned back to face ahead and be polite to her escort, while secretly her mind went wild. Cassandra was never easily spooked, and Cole was hardly a new phenomenon at Skyhold. She had seen them converse before. Surely nothing would have happened that Cassandra would not have felt open to discuss with Olivia after having just spent all those days side-by-side in the field. Nothing was making sense. She gripped the side of her skirts with her hand to cope with the unsettled feel of it all. The music became louder and closer the more steps they took to the epicenter of all the fanfare: people gawking and stepping aside to make room for the Inquisitor to participate in her first dance of the evening. All eyes on her, and all she wanted to know was why Cassandra wouldn’t dare look her in her own.

It would be a long night without one of the few people she trusted to fall back on to allow her to be herself.


	54. The Cat Dances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mage tower at Skyhold is finally completed, and move-in begins immediately. Tensions come to a head between the ranking Rebellion leadership -- what remains of it, anyway -- and the Inquisitor herself as her intentions are called into question. A decisive gambit wins her renewed loyalty. Afterwards, frightening news from Leliana inspires risky choices for Olivia, as her commitment to old friendships refuses to die easy.

_Months prior to the Inquisition’s founding, somewhere in the north-central Fereldan countryside --_

They had lost track of the date weeks into their wanderings. All that was steadfast truth was the season: the winter that was getting ready to be put to bed so that spring could awaken again. The campfires had become their own epicenter of life while the world spun around them: five women, five Mages, breaking from ranks both Circle and Rebellion, to survive on their own. Consequently, resentment was as much a sustenance as hunted meat and stolen bread.

“Faustina never gave you any tidbits? No tells at all?” Roslyn’s head went from side to side as she chewed a piece of burnt jerky on the side of her mouth. Spit broke free from her open mouth so much that it challenged the Fereldan weather in being the most abundant source of condensation. Despite her crudeness she always found happy company sitting beside Olivia, the well-mannered though increasingly vulgar-mouthed Orlesian of the group.

“No, she never did,” Theia swore again, pulling meat from a thigh bone in her lap. “I keep trying to remember if there were any peculiarities in the weeks leading up to the vote, but she never allowed me to see what she did not think I was prepared to see.”

“Teachers,” Veronica growled a bit as she picked her teeth with the edge of her smallest dagger blade. “Always forgetting that it makes them look like the bigger ass when their pups don’t know their asses from their snouts.”

“That is a fine way to make a point that our superiors should have taken better care with us, Veronica,” Naomi filtered as she ran her hands through her basket of harvested materials. Weeds, stems, flower blossoms, herbs, all bundled and tied with twine or vines in lieu of string. That basket was as much a source of survival as anything Veronica could ensnare for dinner, or Olivia could thief in a village. In her head of thick, black curls, some of the prettier and less useful flowers she came across were stuck in her hair.

“I said what I said how I said it,” Veronica added, wiping her blade on her thigh. “Besides, if Theia never got any word, we were all shit-outta-luck anyhow. Teacher’s pet over here,” she grinned, kicking her in the shin lightly with her boot toe.

Theia stifled a laugh and tossed more meat into her mouth. “Oh, come now, I wasn’t the only one. What about Gem?”

Olivia’s eyes shot up from her own pile of cooked rabbit that she had been nervously picking dark from light meat the entire time. Her hands were greasy and sticky from the trifling. Not even roughing it in the wilderness could stop her from being slightly picky with her proteins.

“Gem?” Veronica smirked, “she never talked back like you. Always did what she was told and then some. You think they would have minded her opinion?”

Naomi glared at Ro protectively as she wrapped a bundle of elfroot leaves together. “Veronica, catch up with your mouth and rein it in, already.”

“I’m right, you know it.”

“Olivia did not talk because she didn’t have to. She knew her shit, and everyone knew she knew her shit,” Roslyn asserted. “It’s a rare sight, an Orlesian who doesn’t spit smoke up everyone’s arseholes so everyone thinks they know how to build a fire.”

Olivia glanced sideways at Roslyn, giving her a glimpse of a shy but thankful smile. Roslyn received it by nudging her in the shoulder like the rough-and-tumble woman she was. Body and verbal language might have been antithetical to one another, but their respective kindness in spirits proved most fluent. Olivia recovered from the brisk shove and slipped a piece of meat between her teeth that was good enough for her standards.

“Roslyn speaks sweetly, if not a bit embellished,” she finally spoke, shoulders hunched a bit. “I did not maintain the close connections with my teachers as Theia did. I was far too intimidated.”

“Intimidation is what they depend upon,” Theia agreed. “Intimidation and copying. Even Faustina, when she looked at me, sometimes I saw nothing more in her eyes than a reflection of her younger self. They all wanted sheep, not lions, to raise.”

“Aye,” Veronica nodded, “and what snippy little cats we turned out to be.”

The group all rumbled with chuckling and giggling. A group of misfits, each one specialized in skills the others lacked, as if chosen as representatives. Their ranks were fortified as much as any Circle hierarchy was: strengthened by the need to survive and maintained by the will to defy expectations. The fire crackled on, fueled by Olivia’s pyromantic talents and Roslyn’s cut wood.

“Veronica,” Olivia said as she swallowed another morsel, “remember when we set that lecture room on fire?”

It took the Fereldan brunette a moment to recall, but once she did she bit her lip. Failing to suppress her laugh, she snorted a bit through her nose. “Yes, Maker’s ass, that was to-die for.”

“You two wouldn’t tell me the story behind that -- what got into you?” Theia asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Veronica tossed her head back, laughing louder. She clapped her hands once as Olivia regaled the story.

“We had a bet that the books in the shelves were so old that they had ceased to be flammable decades ago. I said they would burn, Veronica said no. We bet half our rations at supper. First try, they didn’t burn. Veronica swore they would if I added some of the powder I made in the laboratory. So, I…” Olivia had to stop to hold back her own laugh, “I dusted the stuff like a maid and snapped my fingers.”

Naomi and Roslyn both made their eyes wide like plates, Naomi stopping her handiwork as they looked on in surprise. Theia put her hand to her mouth, trying to maintain decorum in a lawless wild. 

“Oh, come on!” Veronica laughed some more, “it’s funny and you know it, icicle-ass!”

That was the tipping point. All at once, the women laughed again: timidly low at first, but then the reckless abandon of being out in the great wide unknown liberated their humors. Apprentices were strictly taught never to waste or make light of the materials from which they learned their skills; even if those materials were more relics that took up space in cold rooms rather than be used, they were sacrosanct. For all their differences in attitudes, Veronica and Olivia shared one commonality: an irreverence for precedent.

“I guess I was wrong. Olivia didn’t always do as she was told,” Veronica admitted with a smile, winking in her one Orlesian friend’s direction. Olivia matched it with a cheeky smile, placating her sharp wit with sweetness.

“Maker,” Theia calmed herself, hand on her sore gut from too much joy, “you are going to make my supper repeat on me.”

“Good, I could use another helping of meat,” Veronica teased, stretching back on her seat on the ground.

“Ugh, you’re disgusting!” Theia swatted at her, nose scrunched in repugnance.

“What? It wouldn’t be the first time you let this mouth have seconds.”

Everyone rolled their eyes and groaned. Roslyn tossed her meat back into the stolen old pot over the fire and rose to her feet, dusting off her breeches. The streak was going long in-between Theia’s and Veronica’s flirtatious comments that the communal nature of their traveling prevented privacy for.

“Remind me to stick you both with my staff blade next time you pair dinner with a show no one wanted to watch,” she said before walking off towards their tent, red hair billowing in the evening wind.

Naomi shook her head as she returned to shuffling and organizing her inventory, trying her best to forget the comments as she always did, rather than make more of a fuss. Their dissents left Olivia to be the permissive one, the friend who would only smile and play along rather than see her friends be embarrassed or disapproved of. She kept pulling apart her helping of rabbit, trying to convince herself to take another bite for the sake of her health. Above her tucked head, the palpable chemistry that had simmered for years between her best friend and the woman she had a love-hate bond with stayed strong another day. Too intimidated, too ready to go along. First as a student, and then as a friend.

“Olivia,” Naomi distracted her. “come here, I want to put some flowers in your hair!”

Naomi sat aside the basket near her bunched knees, picking and snapping some light blue flowers no bigger than the tips of her fingers. Olivia grinned and followed Roslyn’s example, putting her meat back in the pot and wiping her dirtied hands on her pants. Rolling onto her butt and then her back, she laid her head on Naomi’s lap as they had done so many times before.

Naomi gently pulled all of Olivia’s long, dirty-blonde hair across her thighs, fingers lightly combing through the tangles. Aiding loose braids and twists to hold the flowers in place, she would sneak a grin ever-so-often down at Olivia’s admiring eyes. She tried her best, but the relaxing sensation of someone playing with her hair always led to her closing her eyes and stealing light sleep. Perhaps that was why Naomi did it so often, and so patiently, even if it meant staying in place for up to an hour next to the fire while everyone else had their liberties.

“Just keep breathing in the flowers, love. They’re magic,” Naomi hummed as she weaved. Her sincerity and understated glee made anything and everything believable. 

\--

_Skyhold. Umbralis, 9:41 Dragon --_

A few days had passed after the Santinalia celebration. As promised on at her return to Skyhold, the week was ending with an exciting development at the fortress: move in and usage for the freshly constructed Mage study tower. For Olivia, it was a hot bed of opportunity: a project seen from inception to completion, which had brought to life one of her first prerogatives as the Inquisition’s leader. It also reaffirmed her stature amongst the allied Mages after so much time spent at war. Or, so she hoped.

Commotion abound as everyone moved in their workable belongings into the multi-level structure: first floor was apothecarial and healing focused, the second scholastic, and the third reserved for the most delicate procedures like experimentation and enchanting. The third floor’s benign labeling was a cover for what Olivia had discussed with the allied Mage leaders, a space to explore boundaries in arcane and alchemical knowledges. Pursuits sneered upon by the Chantry. These were the ambitions Olivia had taken great care to oversee personally rather than have it be reported to the Commander or anyone else who would prove less understanding of such measures.

Nothing excited the Inquisitor more – not even the potential for new experimental projects – than having a workspace for Mage works again. Tucked away in the second level with the assembled bookshelves and tome stacks, Olivia would be fittingly wedged between both levels, mediating between them both in her work and her management.

Hours into the move-in and she had a spare moment to stand before her clean, freshly-built desk and marvel at it. The new wood grain, the unused candles, and accompanying chair. Before the Inquisition, before the rebellion, this was what she had aspired to have one day as a simple Apprentice: an independent workspace and a self-determined docket of studies. While the journey to it had proven more eventful than once imagined, perhaps it was demonstrative of ends justifying the means.

“It’s a beautiful thing, is it not?” a voice rang out from the stairs. Bridget, one of the Mages similar in age to Olivia, carrying an armful of scrolls with her to organize on the shelves.

The Inquisitor smiled and held her hands out like wings. “It is positively euphoric. I may shed a tear!”

“Get in line!” Bridget teased, a soft giggle under her breath.

Olivia watched her colleague as she approached one of the bare shelves labeled with parchment for incoming materials. The inventory was to be alphabetized and sorted according to school. Feeling indulgent in her admiration for her new hiding place, Olivia made herself useful and approached to assist.

“This place will be buzzing like a beehive,” Bridget remarked, handing her a few. “I still cannot you received the go-ahead for it.”

“What, can the Inquisitor not run an Inquisition?” Olivia asked as she half-opened the first of three scrolls to put away. “Ugh, more diagrams on witherstalk and accompanying flora. Blast that insufferable plant.” The ordeal traveling to the Mire was still a source of bitterness, as was the remembrance of the way the medicine tasted on her tongue.

“No, we need those. I want to find a way for it to assist with bleeding ailments.” Bridget started shuffling her bunch into the corresponding shelf, hands carefully ensuring no paper ripped or bent out of shape.

Olivia rolled her eyes playfully and found the shelf marked for healing botanicals. The intention was noble enough for her to swallow her pride another day. The next scrolls followed suit in subject: various diagrams, notes, and writings on healer’s herbs that may or may not have been outdated, but whose precedent mattered enough to keep archived.

“You may have to cover for me when frustrated allies come calling for their missing leader. I may find it too irresistible to leave this place.” Olivia couldn’t deny that the tower was a little of a personal wish as much as it was a leader’s vision. For a year she had been out of place and detached from the place that had seen her grown from child to woman, and unaware apprentice into practicing enchanter.

“I’ll just say you went for a ride, and perhaps you may never return!”

“Hah! I would love to see their faces. ‘Oh, so that whimsical blonde has finally given into her runaway fantasies! Pish posh,’” Olivia mocked with her nose scrunched.

Bridget laughed, stepping back from the bookshelf to make for the stairs. “A Mage never knows to stay put where they are placed.”

Below their feet a group filed in carrying a large trunk of equipment, and the two women went to the rail to eavesdrop. By the sounds of clanking glass, the trunk was most likely filled with jars, glasses, and test tubes. Tools long stored away with no sensible place to be set up until that day. The notion was exciting: finally, they could stretch their muscles and further empower the Inquisition forces. The alliance would prove fruitful once again.

Bridget leaned her shoulders over the edge like a beguiled child, eyes bright and smile wide. “Maker, this will be just like the Circle!”

The comment viscerally offended Olivia, hitting her like a sack of bricks in the gut. Her jovial expression faded, and she leaned back from the rail.

“This will be different from the Circle. No Templars, no guards, no censorship,” she corrected bluntly. “The Circles have no place in the world anymore.”

Bridget looked back at her, brow furrowed. “But was this not the original intention behind Circles? To provide a place of structure and opportunity for Mages to exert their studies?”

“The Circles were a political device, Bridget. We must rethink what it means to be a Mage in Thedas. Creating new infrastructure at our volition that shows we can function without policing and violence is the first stage.” Olivia’s heart raced as if she were an animal caught in a snare. Surely, she did not fight for this project and stand for its legitimacy just to be an enactor of a pseudo-Circle within the Inquisition fray. Vivienne’s comments about her replicating the Circles haunted her psyche from the second she uttered them. This was the second strike against her imagination.

Clearly not as emphatic about the topic as the Inquisitor was, Bridget bunched her shoulders and put a hand in the air. “Well, alright. All I know is Grand Enchanter Fiona and her followers won’t stop talking about it.”

“And what, exactly, are they saying?” Olivia inquired as they walked around the corner and back down the stairs.

“You know, the same old issues. The future, the current state of the Empire, getting what they bargained for in the beginning,” Bridget said with an air of impatience, waving her hand dismissively in the air. “It feels so far away, the beginning of the end.”

“You mean the Rebellion?”

“If you could call it that.”

Olivia sighed as their feet touched ground on the base floor. Adjusting the fit of her jacket sleeves, she tried to not get lost in the semantics of the moment. The tower was a victory, and a new start, and she would bite down on that as hard as she could. No politics or side-swiping would take that away. As if their discussion conjured presence, Fiona and two of her associates entered the door, keen eyes and simple grins.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Olivia greeted with a bowed head and cordial expression. “I am delighted.”

“Inquisitor,” Fiona returned, coming to stand directly in front of her as her allies flanked her on either side. Old faces, faces who had seen great and terrible things. Behind their eyes were the architect minds of the rebellion. Once, Olivia would have shuddered and hunched out of the might of their stares. Now she had enough roar in her chest to back her own play.

“I trust the move-in has proven efficient?” Olivia broached small-talk as Bridget fidgeted at her side, less at ease with the upper echelons.

“Of course, Inquisitor. You and your advisors have been most communicative. We are excited to see what this space will provide for our people. Your people,” Fiona added weight onto a simple conversation like no one Olivia had known before. One tower was the beacon of an entire group’s futurity.

“That honors me more than you know,” Olivia replied as she planted her hands on her hips.

Behind the Grand Enchanter, a tall and somewhat burly man in dark Mage’s robes surveyed the scene with a raised, skeptical brow. It put Olivia off at the start: what was there to sneer at? Had the Inquisition not scoured the lands for the materials necessary to erect such a space? Fending off the nerve to scowl in his direction, she kept her focus on the polite discussion at hand.

“The tower will be a wonderful opportunity for Inquisition Mages to pursue studies as a liberty rather than a boundary. I look forward to what we are able to accomplish,” Olivia added, laying her diplomatic tone on heavy.

Fiona smiled, a cleverness to her reaction that seemed even above the heads of her accompanied colleagues. “Yes, and when the programs we discussed can be fully enacted, it will be most productive, I think.”

The man then grumbled under his breath. Disagreement was an artform, but some had heavier brushstrokes than others. His rumbling attracted the attention of all the women surrounding him, and his distaste gained its stage in that moment.

“Grand Enchanter, do you honestly believe these ‘programs’ you keep referring to will be anything more than an assimilationist masquerade?”

The words cut deep despite them coming from someone Olivia hardly recognized. Her face grew hot almost like a flame ignited behind her eyes. The terse and nauseating pompousness that he exuded was like a wretched waste bin in the kitchen’s butcher room. Before he even opened his mouth, she wanted him to stop talking, for people like him had their own narrative ongoing in their minds. No voice was quite like the one their inner monologues had, and no outgoing conversation would be complete without its expression no matter who or what was around. Fiona’s commitment to a diversity in perspectives had clearly withstood the test of calamity.

“Rothford,” Fiona cautioned while looking off to the side, “we have discussed this.”

“We have talked until we are blue in the face, Fiona, but the dilemma still stands. Inquisitor,” he motioned toward Olivia now, grey eyes sharp, “do you honestly believe your efforts will do little more than endanger and splinter ranks for the sake of a fantasy?”

“A fantasy? Take more caution with your diction than you have with your attitude, if you please,” Olivia scolded in return, irises glowing to fend off his unwarranted intensity. At her side, Bridget was becoming so on edge that she could feel it impress upon her own mood, like prey animals communicating that danger was afoot. She glanced her way and offered a dismissive nod, sending her off through the door to return to move-in operations. If she could not get away from the jaws of the predator, then she could at least spare her friend.

The man scoffed and folded his arms the way overconfident men did: weight swaying from side to side, chin tucked as he glared. Dorian was a better and less aggravating performer of the maneuver. 

“Weekly reports of insults and harassment filed to the Commander’s office, and you think that a new shiny tower will make everyone play nice. We cannot forget the pushback we received on this project, nor the outward accosting we endured for it.”

“Have I not bent my ear and hand to assist in any and all conflict resolution? It would have been rather difficult for me to negotiate fortress dynamics while I was on the front battling demons and corrupted Grey Wardens, don’t you think?” Olivia asked, insulted. Fiona stepped in between the two tempers, physically mediating like she was so proficient at.

“This is not the way an understanding is reached. Rothford, the plans Her Worship and I have discussed have been thoroughly detailed with all sensitivities in mind. You have been made privy to them enough. Now is not the time.”

Rothford groaned, shaking his head. “Now must always be the time, Fiona. Our people are putting their all into a cause that wants them indentured and you have the gaul to tell me sensitivities were considered?”

“What an astute observation, Rothford,” Olivia smiled wryly, head tilted in condescension, “Imagination abounds with how it might have helped things when you were actually indentured to a maddened Tevinter Magister at Redcliffe!”

“Inquisitor!” Fiona insisted, holding a hand out in the direction of both parties. “We must re—”

“Now, now, Fiona, have you taken to walking around in open air with your pet chickens again?”

Madame de Fer’s voice ran steady and commanding through the room as she stood in the doorway, several Mages behind her who had parted like the sea to make way. Dressed in her meticulous uniform, hand on one hip, she looked positively indominable for simply entering a square room full of contentious squabbling. Fiona and Rothford stepped to either side, forming a straight path between Vivienne and the Inquisitor, who’s rage was quelled only by the hope that her appearance would be to her benefit rather than her regret.

“First Enchanter,” Fiona said in return for the slight. “How fitting you should join us for this occasion.” 

Vivienne’s stoicism was the stuff legends were made of. “Of course, Fiona, someone would have to do the honors of making it an occasion in the first place. What else is there to be done?” as she asked, she strut forward to solidify the divided sides of voices within the dispute. She took her place at Olivia’s right side, standing both taller and more refined, but nevertheless loyal. Behind Fiona and her allies, the doorway grew crowded with spectators, an inconvenience for some but a useful phenomenon for the Iron Lady.

“Vivienne,” Olivia greeted with a subtle tip of her chin, “you’re too kind to take the time from your day.”

“My dear, anything for you.”

Fiona looked perturbed but careful not to fan the flames. Her attempt to mediate now dissolved into a paired off détente. Rothford, not one to take a clue, took the development as merely a short intermission in his grand moment.

“I still stand by my position. Forcing the Mages to work alongside those who censure their own prejudices invokes nothing but risk, the cost which will be paid with their security.”

Olivia shook her head once, slowly. “Giving Mages the opportunity to learn and work at skills and pastimes robbed of us for the Circle’s sequestration is a risk worth the reward. Was the rebellion not a war cry for reform?”

“Indeed, it was.” Fiona straightened her shoulders, her glance shifting from the Inquisitor to Rothford, who seemed more distanced by the second from the women.

Vivienne folded her arms. “Mm, yes, one does remember a great deal of crying.”

Rothford spat, finger launching forward in the air at the Inquisitor. “If you want irresponsible, then continue this charade. Mages are Mages, not procurers of parlor and baking tricks. We deserve sanction to be as we are and do as we see fit for the good of ourselves and the world.”

“Which is why you are here, allied with the Inquisition, to save that world and prove that our persecution is unfounded!” Olivia’s leveling volume damn-near shook the surrounding furniture. Far from done she came forward, stepping into he open wood floor between the four people at the heart of it all. Rather than contain herself to their little microcosm she turned her attention to the half dozen or so faces standing around the door, peeking in with both concern and captivation. She came within a couple of yards of them, their faces becoming more alarmed with her encroaching stature.

“You, you all are of similar age as me,” she began, holding her arms out in a welcoming posture. “You all have memories as I do of the time the Circles were disbanded. I am sure I was not alone when I struggled to make sense of it all while those elevated and older negotiated our futures on our behalf, with or without our insight. Tell me, did you dream as I did? When the doors were barricaded, did you not wonder what it would be like to cross the boarded threshold and be welcomed somewhere? To have homes, hearths, and families, cook and clean and make crafts with your bare hands. To learn from your elders the ways of your foremothers and fathers? Did you not dream of what could have been: our cultures not stripped from us along with our rights? If you had nothing before, I know you must have had some form of hope that life could be different. The Circle was our refuge, but it was also our chattel. I was not the only young, wide-eyed Mage at Ostwick that spoke of impossibilities worth holding onto when all else seemed lost.”

The Inquisitor had taken to pacing as she spoke. As she did, the eyes of every Mage before her began to have insurgent colors. The effervescence of wonder in them, and how they made her come alive in her heart. This was where she belonged – this was where she was needed. Not demonstrating respectability before impertinent elitists, but concerting with those who were shoulder-to-shoulder with her before she was Andraste’s blessed. Swallowing her accumulated spit, she licked her teeth under her pursed lips and continued.

“Let us construct something new. Let us see what we are capable of! Push the boundaries as our ancestors did. If this boon did not change my fate,” she said as she held up her left hand, “I promise you I would still be dreaming to have my future as a Mage be mine to decide. The choice of your destiny here is not mine to make, but yours; so, what shall it be?”

Stone-cold quiet. Not a single step, ache in the wood-lain floor. Behind the entryway more Mages had become accumulated as an audience, now almost two dozen of them, too many for her to see from where she stood. For the first time Olivia opted for the banner and not the injured emotions of her past to guide her rhetoric. Steeled, she turned to look back at Rothford, a man who had watched the embers he stepped on so foolishly turn into an enraptured fire. Her stare was inescapable as it was condemning.

“I am with you, my Lady Inquisitor,” a voice from the group affirmed. With the need to identify who, Olivia’s familiarity with the tenor of it proved vindicated: Odessa had cleared her way through the crowd to stand front-and-center, confident grin on her face. Olivia’s anger ceded into emboldened smugness as she smiled and welcomed her.

One by one, the witnesses stepped into the room as a sign of their agreement to the Inquisitor’s proclamation. Instead of timid and obeying they looked enthusiastic, smiles that echoed soft laughs of vindication on their tongues. Rothford and Fiona both stepped back to make room while Vivienne stayed put where she was. Finally, the last member of the congregation came and stood alongside everyone else. The ages, heights, and genders more variant than at first.

Satisfied as they came to a standstill, Olivia came around to face Rothford head on. No longer was she alone to face his bitterness. Across from him, Fiona looked on with a shyly pleased demeanor. Hers was not the look of shame or distaste that he so brazenly shown. Defeated without hope of rebuttal, Rothford became more phantom than antagonist.

“Oh now, Rothford,” Vivienne taunted, brow lifted, “has the song knocked your steps out of rhythm?”

The man growled low with resentment. His eyes shifted like a cornered animal from Olivia and her collective, to Fiona who kept her words to herself, and Vivienne who did not.

“The Rebellion’s fortitude died this day,” he cursed, before stomping towards the door and shouldering through the people. They let him struggle and bump into them rather than clear a way. It was the sweet touch atop the crowning moment Olivia had forged from a petty disagreement.

Her turf conquered, the Inquisitor smiled and exhaled the nervous breath in her lungs. People began to clap in loose, cheerful beats, sprinkling in compliments for Her Worship’s resolve. As it turned out the sanctimonious stalking of the Rebellion’s elite had not only troubled Olivia’s good patience.

“My Lady Inquisitor,” Fiona approached looking relieved, “My apologies for the scene. It was not my intention to cause derision.”

“No need for apologies, Fiona,” Olivia refuted. “You are not always responsible for the mouths of others.”

Fiona raised her chin. She stole a slow and lingering glance in Vivienne’s direction, which was met with an equal amount of understated ice. A look of renewed, though implicit conflict. Then, placing a hand on the Inquisitor’s forearm, she returned her sights to her.

“That is a misunderstanding you will find more difficult to be rid of than estimated, my Lady. If it is all the same, I will take my leave and return to my chosen work.”

“Yes, thank you,” Olivia approved, “and I will as well.”

\--

Though Fiona had the meaningful farewell, Vivienne was the ally who would accompany Olivia back to the Great Hall once the majority of moving in had been completed. The first half of the walk was speechless, though as they began up the stairs, severed from the courtyard, the Madame fulfilled expectation.

“That was rather remarkable, your little display,” Vivienne observed as she ascended, eyes forward.

Olivia’s eyes dotted across the view of the lower grounds, merchant’s tents strewn along the walls and trainees sparring. “Is that an underhanded compliment or an overt insult?”

“You and I both know matters such as these rarely are that black and white, Inquisitor.”

“Is that why you do not dissent outright?”

They reached the top of the stairs and the entrance of the Great Hall. The mid-afternoon brightness was starting to tire as the day wore down, but they had made the most use out of the provided daylight.

“My dear, your mind is a colorful place, though I wonder what you hope to do when those shades fail to conceal the truth.”

Olivia huffed air through her nose, hand going to the right underside of her ribs where a cold ache lulled in her healed bones. “Whatever do you mean, Vivienne?”

“I mean that it matters little whether a Mage can patch a roof or cook a meal when a society is terrified that it takes a thought and not a match for them to light the hearth. You have risen in a time when fear of magic is at its most precarious and your response is to restore that which you believe taken, rather than to embrace that which has been given.”

“The Circles did not give us anything that which we cannot recapture and improve upon.”

“To an extent.”

“To an extent? You have so little faith in our peoples’ ability to divert unto newer and better paths?”

“If you are not careful, Inquisitor, you will create more work to be done in order to arrive at the destination than is necessary. Faith has little to do with it. Don’t think for one moment that man’s test of your determination was anything less than a carrot strung on a stick for you to bite. Evidently, it has been too long for some people since the last time you demonstrated your loyalties.”

“So, you are saying they made me dance?”

“Yes, and why not? You have proficient footwork, after all. Takes but only the right music, which is why I was glad to be there to witness the instruments in play for myself.”

Olivia rolled her head back. Her breath created a plume of steam in the winter air around her head like a halo of fog. She was hard pressed to regain a sense of diplomacy after stomaching Rothford’s attempt to rain on her parade. The last thing she needed was her friend to pick the aftermath to strike with her own criticisms. “I refuse to believe Fiona would enact something so manipulative after how closely we have worked together. If she had her concerns, she could have addressed them with me.”

Vivienne shrugged one shoulder as she took in the sights of people mingling around the fireplaces. “She does not have to orchestrate it, darling. Fiona adores free expression since it costs nothing but time, resources, and the safety of innocents. It is hardly subversive when the structure being ‘out of many, one’ is turned upside down in favor of ‘out of few, many.’ All you get is fewer mouths and more opinions you did not ask for, rather than a uniform consensus.”

“She has been nothing but collaborative and understanding. Something tells me she is eager for the Rebel forces to have a new focus and put the upheaval to rest as much as one can given the current state of the world.”

“Indeed, and one most not forget how it came to pass. Your indictment did not just implicate people like Rothford for their obliviousness to the Circle’s everyday occupants. Take care with anyone who grasps a knife and pretends they can spoon-feed you with it.”

“And I suppose you would exemplify a more transparent approach?”

“Now you are running along at the proper pace, my dear.” Vivienne matched her conservative praise with a slight grin, and her eyes softened, enough for Olivia to disarm herself in the face of scrutiny. Vivienne was many things and held many convictions, but even in her criticisms, Olivia never felt anything different than cared for. Whether she read the dynamic right or wrong would have to be proven with time.

“Your warning is dully noted. But from my point of view, organizing Mages as a dynamic force and not just bees in search of one hive seems the more conducive plan to me. There are reasons why it took us reaching beyond the realm of the Circle, Vivienne, to see what we are capable of.”

“Yes, but without the Circles we would not have known that up was a direction at all. Take care and tend this garden of yours well. If it dies, you will be left to clean up. Such a pity you would spend your time with your knees in the tired soil while your gifts pose you readily for the heights of an orator’s hall. Those gifts that you were allowed to nourish in the same place you disdain so articulately.”

Vivienne did nothing more but nod and withdraw from the Inquisitor’s side after her foreboding comment. As she left, Olivia stood firmly underneath the tall double doors while images of the past few hours circulated in her head. The finish line she thought traversed had only become a spiteful benchmark. If the day had proven anything, it was that that the tower much like everything she enacted would be seen symbolically as much as literal. Amidst the images there was one that stuck out the most to Olivia, and that was Fiona’s look she gave Vivienne after Rothford had left. A look between two positioned adversaries, a tell she could only guess the nature of.

For Mages, passive aggression and competition were almost like a second dialect to master in addition to the ones within their studies. Olivia could never hope to truly become fluent unless she made her own noise. That noise began at Haven, with the fiery musings of a paranoid former rogue. It would endure, however, poised between the teeth of a battle-tested leader.

\--

The solitary deliberation did not last long as the Inquisitor found her way through the Hall towards her chambers, intercepted by Leliana who looked atypically alarmed as she marched herself over.

“Inquisitor, a word,” she asked tersely and beckoning her towards the right corner of the room.

Olivia lowered her brow but followed with little fight. In Leliana’s hand was a rolled and bent piece of paper, small enough for one of the ravens to carry. The note paired with the Spymaster’s attitude did not bode well for what she was about to disclose. When they came to a standstill, Olivia girded herself for the worst.

“I have gotten a message from the trackers I deployed on your behalf for your friends. Just now a raven was returned to the nest with this note.” She held it between them, thumb pressed down on the thin parchment. “It is in shorthand, and there is a blood stain on the corner.”

Olivia’s eyed widened as she took it from her. “What did it say?”

“The code translates to a report of a hostage situation north of here. They have not had much time to travel, no more than a half a day’s ride at most, perhaps closer. As you can imagine it is not only the message that disturbs me, but the state in which it was written.”

Leliana was right to be on edge. Notes written as though they were last ditch efforts to communicate with home base were never happy tidings. When Olivia unrolled it between her fingers, she saw for herself the dire impression the note gave: the dark blood drop on the corner just like she warned, and the shorthand written jaggedly, almost incoherent to the naked eye. It was written in a pinch, and not the easily evaded kind. Folding it closed Olivia pursed her lip and looked off to the side, thinking on her feet.

“Is it wise to send reinforcements?”

“We have no way of knowing what they will come up against, other than it clearly being hostile,” Leliana contended. “I assume by the word choice that your friends are still alive, or were, at the time of this message.”

“It makes sense now,” Olivia shook her head, “why they never wrote. Why they never came. They must have been cut off somehow.”

“It also provides insight into what may have been the driving force behind Veronica’s appearance here was. Maybe she was here to ask a ransom, or had escaped. My mind says she was here to convey a message you were not here for; whatever it was, it forced her to leave rather than stay in sanctuary.”

“We won’t know unless we find them and rescue them. I can pack my horse and—”  
“Inquisitor,” Leliana interrupted, a hand motioning towards her with an open palm signaling her to stop. “Sending you of all people to whatever awaits is most unwise. I may have already lost two good people, I will not approve the risk of losing you.”

Of course, no one wanted to risk the Inquisitor’s safety. People would die, sacrificed for causes disconnected to their personal lives. But no, never her. The unwritten rule surrounding her life was a constant obstacle even after all the months spent proving her competent authority.

“Leliana, they are my loved ones. Let me rectify this mission and settle it. If we have already lost people, I want to keep the number from increasing.”

“That is appreciated, but I must know more. I will wait to see if there are more messages incoming, in case they have survived. I doubt if your friends have lived this long that they are in direct danger of being otherwise anytime soon. Their proximity means a resolution will be reached sooner rather than later.”  


“But Leliana, I—”  


“Inquisitor,” Leliana interrupted, taking the paper back from Olivia’s hands, “you are needed here. Let my people and I do our jobs. I promise, I will do my best to ensure all will be well.”

Olivia stared back into the Spymaster’s pale green eyes and saw nothing but reservation born out of empathetic fear. The chance of having lost people – people Leliana cared for both as a superior and person – had clearly compelled her to be conservative. She was a bold woman, but her actions were never without consequence.

Olivia peered back behind her at the aimless socializing people up and down the Hall. None of them appeared too vexed by the conspiring body language between the Herald and Sister Nightingale. For once, the matter at hand did not threaten to bend or break the world everyone loved – just her own.

“Fine,” Olivia gave in, swallowing her pride and returning her attention to Leliana. “I will back off. But, please, keep me in the loop. For everything.”

Leliana bowed her head. “You have my word.”

“Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

The women exchanged cordial looks of farewell before the Inquisitor saw herself through the door to her quarters. Once shut behind her back, she stepped away from it, her breathing instantly hastening in both pace and nervousness. Putting a hand to her stomach and the other to her hip, she paced the walkway between the door and the stairs. They were alive, and they were close. No sea, no armies separated them from each other. Yet, she was being asked to hold her tongue and brake. There were so many, too many questions unanswered for so long. They had begun to grow and burn within her gut, and the news only worsened it. She had felt this pang of cornered restlessness before almost a year ago: the same inertia that propelled her out the door and after Veronica. That choice ended up biting her in the ass and almost costing her life, and whether or not it could still was yet to be seen.

Theia’s laughter. Naomi’s smile. Roslyn’s calloused hands.

Veronica’s wrongs.

They all came together into one forbidden hymn evocative of a sorry friend’s conscience. Taking a breath and looking up towards the stained-glass windows bearing down on her with deep colors cast upon her complexion, she heard their cry. Disobedience was not done with the woman named Olivia.


	55. Allied Powers (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia makes her big move to rescue her friends held hostage, tagging Sera along for the unsanctioned mission. They find the captors to be more organized than meager bandits, and Olivia's dream from Adamant echoes. She finds she is more supported than she admits as her two worlds finally collide.

The time came when the smallest candle burnt out of wax on her desk. As its serpentine trail of smoke diffused, its foreboding beauty was the last obstacle in between Olivia and her choice. Climbing out of bed where she had spent hours staring across the room, she went to work dressing herself. A thick underlayer for the winter night, breeches, a belt. Then a vest tightly cinched around her waist and thick-heeled trail boots that laced all the way up to over her knee. The last thing, as always, was the belt for her daggers and the blades themselves. They had been laid out and cleaned on the couch. They slid smoothly into place on either hip while Olivia’s heart steadied with the knowledge of being armed.

Her hair went up in a tightly wound bun with enough pins to stab the feet of a small military contingent. There would be no time for unruly strands.

The sky was partially clouded with plumes illuminated by the moonlight they concealed. Shades of powdery and dusky blue projected onto the world below, the snow-drenched mountains even more incandescent. There were only the slow stirrings of Battlement watchers, and Olivia was careful not to pique their interest inward. When the coast was clear she clutched her cloak close to her with one hand under her chin and made her break for the tavern. There was one person she trusted to be her backup through even the sketchiest and foolish plans, and it was her friend with the talent for tempest tricks and cussing.

Rather than the respectable entrance, Olivia decided to scale the back wall up onto the shingles. Sera would get a kick out of it, and maybe it would soften her to the idea of stealing away in the cover of darkness to save a gaggle of Mages. Pulling herself up over the edge and onto her feet she stayed crouched, crawling like a spider to the window. She tapped four times, each one louder than the last.

Through the glass she heard an annoyed groan. Then, a hand flailed and landed on the sill.

Olivia snickered but bit her tongue to calm herself. Sera showed her face at last, hair stuck on one side of her head. Clearly, beauty sleep was at hand. Surprised in a grumpy kind of way Sera opened the window and leaned over.

“Andraste’s tits, what are you--”

“Shh!” Olivia put a hand to her mouth and scanned quickly around the courtyard grounds before refocusing. “You must come with me, I need assistance.”

Sera loved mischief but hated bullshit. Slapping Olivia’s hand away she pulled herself up onto her folded legs. “What are you in, now?” she said in a more hushed tone, impressive for her vivacious personality.

“My friends are hostages in a rural pass north of here. I’m going to save them, but I can’t go alone and Leliana can’t know I’ve gone. Are you in or out?”

“Friends? You mean…”

“Yes, those friends.”

Sera snorted. “You have shite taste in friends.”

Olivia grinned and adjusted her black cowl hood, pulling it closer around her head. “I know I do, ass. Coming?”

They stared at each other for a brief few breaths. Sera did her best to put up an unimpressed front, but she was no match for a good opportunity to cause trouble without all the pomp being an Inquisition ally. That, and Olivia’s way of persuading proved just how thick of thieves they had become, for her to only tap on her window and call her an ass.

“Ugh, piss it, I’m a get my bow. Don’t break your neck out there.”

Olivia exhaled with relief, sitting back on her hind end and propping an elbow on her bent knee. “Hurry up then, before I get ideas.”

\--

Without reinforcements or Inquisition banners to accent their traveling, Olivia and Sera were left to rediscover the land for themselves. The Inquisitor herself rode her horse while ponying another, originally meant for Sera who had a distrust of the creatures no matter who held the reins. The road was rocky at first, scaling down the plateau that Skyhold was so delicately planted on. But, once they found their way into the valley woodlands just beyond the nearest pass, it dawned on Olivia that her determination to find the girls had gone too far to walk back.

Eventually there was a clearing in the trail that flattened out wide, more highway than mountain road. When they arrived at a fork in the road they went left, forging north as if they were heading for the coast to travel to the Orlesian Capitol. Three hours in at a walk/jog pace, but they were close.

“Did you get any details about this place you’re draggin’ us to?” Sera said hushed, walking alongside Olivia’s horse but at a healthy distance.

“Not really, I didn’t want to give her any reason to suspect.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Sera stifled her yell, “so we’re just wanderin’ around looking for five piss-poor Mages tied to a tree or something?”

Olivia sighed, eyes on the horizon for any and all odd shapes or movements. Her irises glowed a bit, more an expression of nervousness than a talent for seeing in the dark.

“I can feel their mana if we are close enough to them. It’s a Mage sensitivity. I just need to get within a mile, and then—”

Off to the side of the trail within the surrounding thicket, a branch snapped. Peach threw her head up, footfalls coming to a halt and a stomp in the dust. Sera turned around at once to observe, hand recoiled behind her in anticipation of needing an arrow right quick.

A half minute passed, with no tells or discoveries. Another animal, hopefully.

Olivia lightly kicked her horse forward. “We have to keep moving,”

Sera sighed shallowly in her chest, marching along like the ever-dedicated but resentful ally she was. Maybe she was rethinking her constructed reputation as being the one for the scrappy jobs who could get out of trouble just as easily as get into it.

“Next time, bring Cassandra along.”

Olivia scowled to herself a bit, fiddling with the rein leather in her right hand. “Why would I do that? She hates it when we nose around for trouble. She’d be lecturing us the entire time.”

“Because she has a big sword, idiot. I don’t care what her mouth does when she’s flattening out bandits.”

Right, because Cassandra was always good in a pinch. Always. Unless, of course, you looked pretty for a Santinalia celebration she looked at you like a bizarre mountain creature. Oh, and that was before she’d end up ditching you to spend the rest of the night with people who did not know you as well, who would see you smiling and think everything was fine. That Cassandra. So dependable, not at all fickle or unpredictable. The one who had dodged and denied one-on-one conversations for days as if Olivia had the plague.

_Ugh, Maker’s salted ass._

“Cassandra is fine where she is. Let’s stop talking, lest we get the whole forest in on our plan.”

\--

Another hour of slow riding and hiking past before progress was reached. Olivia pulled her horse to a halt again, this time with a bigger lead than a snapped branch sound. She held her hand out signaling Sera to stand still and closed her eyes. It was there: the humming, the indistinct but present vibration that spread through air and objects. The kind of accompanying atmosphere that walked with her, walked with them, for so long. The trace energies she had come to know so well – echoing like the time she sensed it in the mountains when Theia appeared. Within her bones and muscles her own mana began to stir with the development of fondness it harbored for these strands of ephemera.

Opening her eyes to reveal their glowing anew, she grinned.

“We’re close. Do you remember any towns or buildings near here?”

Sera scratched the side of her thigh with the tip of her bow. “No towns for miles. Just a couple lopsy cottages.”

“Right, that one with the half-burnt roof?”

“Shit, yeah!”

Olivia dusted off her gloves and dismounted. Searching around, she found a tree far enough into the forest line to not drag immediate attention to the existence of two equipped horses. Sera followed her as she led the animals out of sight, slipping the split rein around the lowest hanging branch with enough slack to give her mare her head to graze.

“What say you about continuing on foot through the undergrowth?” Olivia asked as she stepped back out onto the road.

“I say good, ‘cause I’m sick of trotting along.” Sera flexed her bowstring preemptively, looking side to side down either direction. “How close you think?”

“No more than a half mile. They are alive, but they…they feel tired. Subdued.”

“Alive? Good enough,” Sera remarked as she walked onward, “let’s kick our heels on before that changes and I regret followin’ even more with nothin’ to show for it.”

\--

The half-burnt cottage showed itself like Olivia had hoped, about a half mile down the road and apparently desolate. It was not an intimidating structure by any means: a single room, one story building with maybe an attic at the top. Still, the roof was tall and angular in proportion, mirroring the architecture of mountain cottages that endured the elements. It was past its prime, but with four erect walls and half a roof, it could still be a useful hideout. No candle-lit windows or commotion seen from their vantage point, hiding behind a hedge as lookouts for a half an hour. On the one hand, one would say the lack of activity a sign of security. But to the Inquisitor and Red Jenny, no movement meant no predictions, and no predictions meant no upper hand.

“They can’t have more than a handful of people here,” Olivia whispered as she unsheathed her daggers gently, “if we scale and drop in, we can take half of them out without touching the ground.”

“Or, if they’re waiting for us, we could get shot down like pigeons come peckin’ in the wrong tree,” Sera gruffed, rolling over onto her ass and anchoring her elbow on her knee. “And we don’t even know if they got your friends.”

“They got them. I can feel it.”

“And if it’s a trap? What then, turnip-brain?”

Olivia gnawed at the side of her cheek, sitting back on her folded legs. “Then we dig ourselves out of it. I’m not leaving them.”

Sera stared at her, looking only half-convinced by her show of authoritative candor. They had come all that way, broken all the rules and codes of rightful conduct to pull it off. Olivia wasn’t going to quit for the sake of her friendships, and Sera wasn’t going to back out on her own play. Taking a breath and dusting off her shin, she spat off to the side and readied.

“Right. Drop in from the top. You sure you got the limbs for it?”

“Yes. I got up to your room, did I not?”

“My room and a cottage roof ain’t the same thing. Just get your ass up in the air, and don’t give away our spot. Got it? And try not to have that thing go off,” Sera blinked towards Olivia’s left hand which was planted palm-down on the dirt. Olivia sighed and nodded back, pulling her knee up to crouch on the toe of her heel. Pulling her hood back over her head and around her mouth and nose for identity and warmth’s sake, she was primed.

“Alright, then, let’s go while we have the night’s cover.”

They crawled and crept like stalking predators through the untrimmed undergrowth surrounding the cottage. No footprints or impressions in the snow or mud, another peculiarity that stuck with them both as they made their breaks for it to the wall. Sliding against the wood and looking for a way up, they came to a slanted plank of wood and shingles. Olivia preferred to go up first using Sera’s helpful hands to be her boost, and once she climbed high enough, she turned around to provide sera the pull-up using her bow as a connecting limb. Olivia might not have been the most graceful, but she was strong, enough to get Sera within reach of a grip onto the roof’s decaying platform.

Now on the roof, the petite blondes scaled over the side and onto the rim of the burnt-through hole, reaching a point from which to survey down below. The attic floor was broken and unspoken for, providing a direct sight of the ground below them. Olivia climbed over to the other side of the hole, eyes searching frantically for any sign of hostages tied or cornered. Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest when she saw a group of bodies tethered in a circle, planted on the ground and still. It was too far up to distinguish individual traits between the bodies clothed in jackets and breeches, heads covered by hoods and blankets. Whoever was keeping them wanted them to be resilient against the cold, even as no fire was kept.

Olivia peered back at Sera. One quick shake of her head, and she, too, confirmed that there was nothing outwardly intimidating. No watchers, no guards. Just the tied-together bodies. Above them all, the moons broke free from the grasp of the clouds that had long been emptied of snow and rain. Its illumination provided Olivia with new skills of discernment: there were four bodies shoulder-to-shoulder, knees bunched and heads leaning on one another. Feeling their mana, and now seeing the right number of people kept captive, it was beyond the realm of coincidence. These were her friends. These were her sisters.

She raised her hand and signaled to Sera that it was time to descend a level. Trap or no trap, they wouldn’t find out until they made the first move, as unideal as it was. Sera pursed her lips and readied her bow in her hand. She would have Olivia’s back while she chose to be the first to descend.

Climbing over the edge and spotting a wonky limb of wood beam, she first touched down on it with her foot and then grounded her weight onto it, straddling the wide log until she could swing around to hand upside down. From there, she reached for another rough and broken blank of wood, most likely flooring that used to support the attic. One dagger between her teeth and the other sheathed, she swung down with her arms wrapped around it, hanging there with ten feet or so to fall should she elect to. Instead, she pulled herself up, and crouched on the wood like a night bird needing a resting place. Closer and more precarious, she caught her breath and steadied herself, eyes always on her friends below.

Then, movement.

One of the group’s heads pulled up from its place on the other’s shoulder. A sharp inhale, loud enough for Olivia to hear. Their head was cloaked, making her ability to identify them impossible. But they were awake, and now maybe a witness to the rescue operation.

Olivia bit her lip and watched as they looked around, movements slow and fatigued. Maker only knew how long they had been kept like this, stuck in the snowed-in ground, arms tied behind their backs and bodies the only dependable source of warmth. For Mages who had expelled enough energy in fighting back their captors, such an environment was punishment enough for their dilapidated energy levels. Punishment, but not a death sentence.

As she stationed herself, there were beads of sweat sliding on either temple. Not purely from exertion, but all of it: the risk, the potential to be reunited with her friends, the impending danger that may or may not ensue. The worth of her life and Sera’s that she had been gambling with all night. It all culminated into that moment, that make-or-break navigation of fate. After all that time, all that doubt, she was within yards of her friends and they her. It was too much to resist, too much to let go and delegate to someone else. She had to be the one.

Looking back up at Sera for one nod of confirmation, her ally was already posed with bow and arrow cocked at the ready for launch should someone make themselves known. Stilling her breathing, she wiped her face with the forearm of her long gloves and went in: using her dagger as she fell to stick within the wooden wall and spot her fall, she gave into gravity and descended down onto the base level.

Her boots hit the ground with a dusty, snow-soaked squish. No one was there to welcome her. The seduction of seclusion then became too much for her: with nothing between her and her friends but the muddy, frozen ground, she inhaled and went for it.

“Wake up!” she hissed as she slid onto her knees, blade posed to stare cutting ties. “Wake up, all of you!”

Heads began to roll and sway. Up close, their hoods were found to be sacks and burlap left over from their captive transport. Olivia rushed to pull off the first few, and her heart raced with vindication when the second head was one of pure white blonde hair. Trevelyan hair.

Theia’s eyes lulled awake. “O…Olivia?”

“Yes, wake up! It’s me!”

“…Olivia….Olivia! You musn’t be here!” Theia’s loopy voice warned as she centered her head between her shoulders.

The second de-cloaked head, one of red hair and a pale complexion, grumbled in unison. “Olivia…Maker’s breath…” Roslyn, blinking harshly against the moonlight.

Olivia rose to her feet and went to work slicing through ropes. It was right there, all of it: their binds, their restrictions. There for the remedying. It was so easy, after all that time. Too easy. But was she going to stand by and deliberate the technicalities? No, she was going to liberate them. She was going to be rewarded for her risks.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to save you,” she whispered, slicing through first Theia’s, then Roslyn’s robes coupling their hands together. “Just take it easy.”

“Olivia, they know you,” Roslyn mumbled as she pulled her arms to her chest, “you need to…you need…”

“Hush, it’s alright, just get yourselves together. We’re leaving.”

“No, Olivia, they—” Theia’s continued alarm was thwarted by the sound of snow crushing beneath feet.

“They did not get the message the first time that there will not be any transactions between us and the Inquisition?” a velveteen voice asked from the right corner of the room. At once, Olivia froze and looked up to see the shrouded figure wearing a head-to-toe cloak, boots the only discernable uniqueness to their shape. Rather than run or cower, Olivia was emboldened by facing a tangible enemy. Rising to her feet she reached and clutched both dagger knives in her hands.

“You are right. There won’t be. I’m taking them and you’ll either let me or die: pick your prize.”

The figure stepped into the fractured moonlight cast down from the broken roof overhead. A dark blue cloak, not black. Tall, but not overbearing. Lean like columns, and tall like them. They had been waiting. No face, no hair to be seen. Only a voice and boots that proved her and Sera’s suspicion true: there was a trap laid and set.

“You demand much,” the figure cautioned, “for someone about to know the cost of trespassing unto where you are not welcome.”

Olivia became instantly corrupted by the carnal protectiveness. The mana was not only theirs that sounded off all the way down the road. Being next to them, around them, their powers were so weak that the distance was impossible. There were others, other sources of magical tracing, that had made themselves known. Digging her heels further into the wintered ground, she realized herself as the epicenter of the viper’s nest.

Five more hooded figures stepped out of the dark, out of their fade cloak dormancies. They had been expecting those who would come to them. All five unknown, but all imbued with the powers of the Magi.

“Olivia!” Naomi’s voice called out from beneath her blanket, “w-what are you doing here?”

“Why do they call you that?” the anonymous stalker demanded, head raised underneath their hood.

Olivia’s loyalties were torn between facing her adversary boldly, and catering to the questions of her beloved Foxes. Pushed to her breaking point with gratification inches away, she broke rank with herself.

“…They…” she hesitated, breathing shallowly in the face of a sticky situation, “they are calling me by my name.”

“You…you are the one they call…”

“I am Olivia. Though the world calls me Inquisitor.”

The figures all straightened up, as if their own ripple effect had been enacted at the admonition of her identity. Olivia herself could not understand why she was so up front with it, but something in her gut told her that there was more use in her name than there would be without it. Then, a most anomalous and captivating sound entered her ears: winds of whispering voices, both too fast and too far away to decipher. They were almost in their own realm of reality all-together, though their volume consumed her senses. Just as they had appeared, they dissipated.

“The Siren!” one of them broke through the concert, an acidic tone to their observation.

“She cannot be defied, Dominic, you know this,” another voice, feminine and softer, sounded off from the left-hand corner.

“We have orders. These hostages must be maintained, or else—”

“Our commands are not conditional!” the correcting voice added, angrier this time. “Her direct engagement was never a part of the plan.”

“Dominic,” a man’s voice, low and hostile, called from the other end. “Our limitations.”

The air grew still. Olivia had been turning and following every voice, looking for sense in the fray of undisclosed prerogatives between the mysterious individuals. Though, the moniker “siren” was familiar. The resonance it provided sent a shiver through her spine. The dream, the episode she had done so well to shake from her psyche for weeks since her incident at Adamant became the center of her world.

“Are you….are you Whispers?” Olivia inquired aloud, her grips on her daggers softening only slightly.

“Has the ritual already been enacted?!” the quiet one that had yet to object sounded off from the left, over her shoulder. A sharp, shrill tone.

“That is not possible.”

“Is it?” the first woman’s voice asked critically, “it has been years, Dominic. Face it. Face it now.”

The one referred to as Dominic who had greeted her first but hung back in the face of debate then stepped forward, their clasped, olive-toned hands slipping out from the cloak he wore. Olivia held her breath but did not back down. Her sweaty palms instead twitched her blades upright facing him, and she stood over her friends like a lioness would her family in wait of attack.

“You were not supposed to be here,” he grumbled, “for that, we must—”

“I refuse to let us fail here!” the shrill voice interjected. With it, an off-setting wind gust circulated the room. Their figure waded through the cultivated inertia, landing immediately in front of Olivia and pulling one of the hostages to their feet. As the concealed victim spun and stumbled, the figured reached a hand around their victim’s neck and gripped, burlap flying off to reveal of all people, Veronica as the chosen collateral.

Gasping with her eyes shooting open, Veronica’s tired paleness was pitiful looking. The unknown assailant held her tight against them, hood draped low over their face – if they had one to begin with and weren’t simply a ghost.

While Veronica choked, they argued.

“Carys, no!” the first woman’s voice chided softly.

“Carys, stand down,” the one called Dominic commanded solemnly, though they remained still.

Olivia was frozen. Even her lungs gave into the sudden direness. A Mage’s hand was a weapon all its own, ready to kill, maim, and burn at the ready. Holding her blades felt almost like a sham in the face of such prowess. Still, she swallowed what little spit she had, and looked upon the face of her friend-turned-antagonist. Veronica looked like a sorry excuse for a rogue as her vision fixated on her long-lost ally

“Let her go,” Olivia warned low, almost in a growl as her chin lowered against her neck.

“You may leave untouched, but we must have someone to punish,” Carys threatened. All around them, her constituents stepped closer. Whether to intervene or assist, Olivia couldn’t trust.

The suggestion was an ironically painful one. Veronica, sniveling and gasping for air, the chosen one for reckoning. Olivia had the choice: embrace the avarice she had carried for that woman for weeks and let it be the end. Was her life, after all she had done, that large of a price to pay for the saving of four others? Four who did not betray her, leave her to the wolves, and objectify her when their loyalty mattered most? Her eyes bounced between the unknown face and Veronica’s panicked expression.

“Olivia,” she choked out, weight going limp into the person who held her, “go!”

“No!” Theia pleaded, rolling onto her knees with her arm gripping her stomach, “please!” She spat with her yell, hunched to the ground and looking willing to pray. On Olivia’s left side, Roslyn pulled Naomi’s shroud off, revealing her head of curls and dirtied face. Pulling her close, she crawled until she was behind Olivia’s flank. Naomi’s eyes stirred open, but not to full consciousness. Her exhaustion seemed particularly acute after so much time, and Roslyn had to drag her to refuge.

“Olivia,” Roslyn muttered as she clutched Naomi to her chest, “Olivia don’t…”

Throughout their cries it was Veronica’s eyes that Olivia remained locked on, lost within even, as the weight of her choice loomed. Their voices were a throng of emotions: pain, exhaustion, anxiety. But Olivia and Veronica kept their heads above the tide, so much so that even the cloaked figures stood by to reckon with the brevity of the situation.

Veronica’s hair was still a tangled mess of brown, tucked in a half-assed braid. Her face had been scraped and stained with dirt, but in her eyes was the same woman that would chew bark between her teeth and shoot down wounded animals in the forest out of mercy. The woman who was willing to pay for her wrongs and evade the consequences that would come with facing Olivia head on. There was both a heroism and a cowardice to it from Olivia’s angry point of view. The distance had fostered so much skepticism towards the person she thought she knew. But there was one line she would not cross, one line she wouldn’t tread like her friend did so long ago.

“Olivia! Go!” Veronica choked, “I deserve it! Go! Save them, please!”

Olivia’s eyes grew inflamed with light. It was never supposed to be this way.

“Let her go or I will burn your blood and bones to dust,” she growled, unhooding her head and letting her eyes grow engulfed in light. Their momentum spread to her face, her complexion becoming brighter and brighter until she it made the memory of the sun feel like a candle’s shadow. The figures stood back expectantly, as if they knew this is what their insubordinate comrade had been provoking.

Olivia didn’t care about their interpersonal opinions. Shining and enraged like a holy torch, she took one step forward, her eyes balls of white light where her irises and pupils had vanished.

“You…you…” Carys raged as they hid themselves behind Veronica’s body, “you—”

“Carys!” Dominic roared, “you have overstepped your bounds!”

Their conversation would not come to pass, though, as the whistling of arrows came hurling through the air. One by one, first with Dominic’s head and the Carys, the arrows sliced through the blackened spaces of their hoods like targets. With each impact, their figures broke into clouds of sand-like colors. Rather than halt and ask questions, Sera kept coming with the ammo, clearly done with the blabbering impasse that had developed. The girls cowered and crawled closer to Olivia’s legs as the glowing arrows came flying – laced with poison that had an iridescence to its composition.

Tears began to overflow in Veronica’s eyes. She didn’t look away, and she didn’t shy from the might of her friend who deserved to blind the world for what she had been put through. When Carys dissipated into dust, she fell to her knees all alone. Life had been suspended on string for her many times throughout her life, but Olivia was not about to be the reason why it’d snap.

Through the air that had become enveloped with fine dust too miniscule to feel between fingers or on faces, they heard a phantom voice:

_Mistakes will be rectified. ___

__A promise, or a warning? She didn’t have much time to contemplate or ask questions of the invisible people anymore. As the atmosphere cleared, she won. She won, and they were alive. Smoke and mirrors and dust be damned._ _

__“Maker,” she hissed as she threw her blade tip-down into the snow and bent down, grabbing for Naomi’s wrists and slicing through the rope. The materials in the rope weren’t standard twine – the texture was almost fleece, thick and well-made. Someone had spared no expense in maintaining the confinement of four Mages._ _

__All around her, the girls scrambled to gain their bearings: Theia crawling to Veronica across the snow, Roslyn lightly slapping Naomi on the cheek to wake her up._ _

__“Sera!” Olivia yelled upwards, “I need help!”_ _

__There was a crick in the attic floor wood, then a swish of air. Sera landed on her feet where Olivia had, less fussy with her arm and footholds on the way down._ _

__“Tits, what was all that?”_ _

__“I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter, we have to get them out of here!”_ _

__Sera rushed around grabbing the other knife out of the ground to help Veronica out of her binds. “You sure about that? Why’d you call ‘em Whisps, is that some ‘Lesion insult or somethin’?”_ _

__“I said Whispers, not—ugh, I’ll—"_ _

__“You think that’s comfortin’?!”_ _

__“I’m not comforted! I’m just saying, that’s what I said!”_ _

__Sera groaned. “You know what’s comfortin’? Bed!”_ _

__Theia took hold of Veronica’s arm as she rose to her feet, weight swaying unsteadily as she dug her boots into the slippery ground. “They killed…they killed your men,” she said to Olivia’s back as she struggled to support her friend’s heaviness._ _

__“I know,” Olivia replied curtly, sheathing her dagger and assisting Roslyn with Naomi. Sliding one of Naomi’s arms around her shoulder and taking hold of her waist, she turned back to face the other three._ _

__“Sera, you need to bring the horses here.”_ _

__Sera frowned, sticking her bow on her back. “Are you serious? B-but, the—”_ _

__“That was not a suggestion. Please, I need to stay here in case Naomi’s condition worsens.”_ _

__Sera stared for a half moment more before groaning. It stung a bit to be so brisk and cold with the friend who followed her and backed her play, but there was no time left to waste or argue. Just as she had relented and made for the door, though, the sound of cantering hooves came around the outside of the cottage. Olivia’s heart quaked – the last thing they needed was a secondary enemy to fend off. She made eye contact with Roslyn, getting permission from her friend to let go of Naomi’s side so that she could follow Sera to the door._ _

__Sera spat. “Shit, of-fucking-course,” she griped as she took her bow back into her hand, drawing an arrow and loading halfway with it pointed towards the ground._ _

__Olivia stood beside her as they both backed up to the wall. She struggled to see through a misshapen hole in the wood, but all that she could see was the front of a dark-colored horse stomping in place, breathing hot air into the night. Its figure was barely differentiated from the darkness surrounding them as the moonlight slipped back behind clouds._ _

__With a sudden and mighty crush, the door between them was kicked in and reduced to little more than scraps of plywood. Olivia and Sera both flinched from the surprise but stayed put flat against the wall. A sword held horizontal came through first – a broad greatsword, finely made, and familiar._ _

__“Inquisition! Show yourself!” a man’s voice roared. Fereldan, fed up, and hoarse from being awake at the wrong hour._ _

__Olivia stepped away, her appearance making him flinch and point his blade at her. The enclosing weapon on her neck made her throat go stiff._ _

__“Cullen! It’s me!” she gasped, hands going up. She eyed the reflection of her eye and brow in the blade metal before he immediately retracted._ _

__“Inquisitor,” he exhaled, stepping in and over the pile he had made. “Are you alright?”_ _

__“Yes, I—” Olivia stopped and felt her throat go dry when she spotted Cassandra behind him, also with shield and sword at the ready. She blinked in disbelief at their eyes linked; Cassandra straightened up from her charging position, tossing her shield to the ground. Of course, she would do this. Of course, out of nowhere, she would appear. They were both dressed in light armor, quick and practical for chasing after reckless leaders into whatever dangers she would dig up. Swords and courage prepared._ _

__“Who are these people?” Cullen asked, demanding her attention, “are these your friends?”_ _

__Olivia nodded, stepping aside and closer to Sera as she disarmed her bow. “Yes, and they’re hurt. We need to get them back to Skyhold.”_ _

__Cassandra came inside, then, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the Commander and sword still at the ready. “Weren’t they held captive? Where are--”_ _

__“They fled.”_ _

__“Fled? How many?”_ _

__Sera stuck her arrow back over her shoulder. “I got twelve with my shots.”_ _

__Olivia glanced back at her with eyes wide. Twelve? Twelve people? Had she been so caught up in the middle of it all that she couldn’t even count the number of potential combatants surrounding her? Had fear paralyzed her beyond her own self-awareness?_ _

__“Maker’s breath. Twelve people, and they fled you?” Cullen asked, sheathing his sword._ _

__“Hey! Hey there!” Roslyn’s broken voice called from across the room. She was still holding Naomi up by sheer stubborn will. “Can we take this debate on the road? We’re a bit sick of this place, in case you couldn’t tell.”_ _

__Olivia’s need to be rid of the interrogation from her Commander and Seeker fit in well with Roslyn’s indictment. Putting her own blades away she rushed over to where she had been standing beside Naomi and took up half her weight again._ _

__“Everyone, please help them to the horses,” she commanded as her and Roslyn began moving towards the door. Cullen went to Veronica, and Cassandra to Theia, as Sera followed them out to check for any last witnesses or scouts surrounding the area._ _

__“My…my bag!” Veronica cried as she held onto Cullen’s side. “I need my bag!”_ _

__Cullen stopped and looked back. “I saw no bag.”_ _

__“It’s there, in the snow! I’m not a filthy liar!”_ _

__Reaching one of the horses, Olivia left Roslyn and Naomi again and jogged back. “You brought your blasted satchel all this way here?”_ _

__“Yes, I did…” Veronica muttered as they approached the horses. “Please, I need it.”_ _

__“Ugh!” Olivia rolled her eyes, taking off back to the cottage. Once inside she scoured, kicking at the piles of snow until at last a sound of leather hit her ears. Crouching onto her haunches and digging, that damn worn bag appeared soaked but not ruined. The same satchel Veronica brought from the Circle along with them when they made a break for it. All that time, and she had never dropped it or traded it for something better. Of course not._ _

__Pulling it by the strap and slipping it over her shoulder, she wasted no more sentimentalities on the place where she reunited with her friends after months apart. The cottage could be burned down and reduced to nothingness for all she cared._ _

__When she came back outside, all four friends had been paired on horses together: Roslyn keeping hold of Naomi in front of her and Veronica holding onto Theia while she held the reins. Cullen was preparing to mount his own horse, while Cassandra and Sera were ensuring the girls were safely secured._ _

__Olivia made her way to her mare standing dutifully beside Cassandra’s black horse, the first time she had ever seen them so mild-mannered in each other’s vicinity. Maybe the long night had been arduous for more than just her._ _

__“Thank you, Cullen,” she commented as she walked past the front of his mount, boots skidding in the dirt lightly as she carried her tired self._ _

__“Don’t thank me, Inquisitor,” he smirked dryly as he shortened his reins. “I wasn’t the one who caught you.”_ _

__Olivia tilted her head, but it only took her a second to have it all click as her eyes lowered to Cassandra. Cassandra, reliable in a pinch, who was handing Veronica a small blanket that seemed to have come out of nowhere. That Cassandra._ _

__The sound of Cullen’s horse snorting as he pulled it around broke her daze. Shaking her head, she arrived at her horse’s side and pulled down the stirrup. As if summoned, Cassandra approached with the same confident walk she always had when they were abroad on missions together._ _

__“Inquisitor are you sure you are alright?” she asked, confident and interested._ _

__Olivia didn’t look back at her, maintaining her focus on preparing her saddle. “I’m fine.”_ _

__“…are you certain?”_ _

__“Yes, they made no attacks on us.”_ _

__Cassandra stood by quietly. Maker only knew what her face must have looked like, because Olivia was taking great care not to find out herself. This wasn’t the first time she had elected to save the Inquisitor from her own choices, only this time it was too late and unneeded. So why was she feeling the solace of thankfulness in her chest, even through the mess of her bruised feelings?_ _

__“I will get on my horse, then. Cullen will ride ahead to ensure our safety.”_ _

__“I assumed as much.”_ _

__“…Olivia.”_ _

__A pause. Though there was nothing Cassandra could say that would flip the tables on Olivia in her single-minded attitude, that didn’t mean she was susceptible to her attempts._ _

__The Inquisitor stopped just as she was reaching for the ends of her saddle to pull herself up. The audacity. The very nerve. Nothing could have been worse to hear in that moment, except perhaps Corypheus himself riding on a goat-driven carriage and monologuing some more about this grand trap he set for her. Her blood boiled like it did when she lit the cottage up, only her face wasn’t glowing with enamored magic. This visceral power was all human. She stepped back and faced Cassandra at last; the Seeker’s face was concerned, more emotionally candid with wider eyes and a softened mouth. She didn’t come to lecture or be critical. She came to help. That wasn’t enough though. Olivia’s face, like her stubbornness, was reinforced with stone._ _

__“You ignore me until now, and that’s what you try on me?”_ _

__“I made a promise,” Cassandra responded, expression steeling a bit in the face of her wrath._ _

__Olivia then felt the string holding together the stitch of her patience pulled beyond salvation. Those four words once again invoked when all else seemed doubtful at best. No matter what, the other will follow. She was an ass for all those things she said, and she knew it. Even without an audience – besides Sera, of course – to hold her accountable, the shame in being angry at so little filled her. It amazed her just how easy it was to transport her psyche back to the weeks after her injury at Adamant. She wondered in vain just why it always took her risking her life for such realities to be born: if she was only precious when she was something, someone, to lose._ _

__“Thank you,” she gave in, bowing her chin a bit. The fruits of her risks a reward, and the confusion of her emotions a caveat._ _

__“Let us go, then,” the Seeker recommended before turning around. She reached and rubbed the side of her neck as she walked away, shield at her back and sword knocking against the metal on her thigh. She always did that when she was overthinking a procedure or a skirmish they had just survived, critiquing herself in retrospect. It was a curious sight to see there of all places, with no blood spilled. Olivia watched her go even with her resentment swelling within every inch of her body. Then, her eyes caught on the girls atop their own horses, holding each other and eyes closed to rest. With or without Cassandra and Cullen, she had done that. Their presence couldn’t take away the consolation of their survival._ _

___Oh, shit. I did that. Leliana. Oh, dammit. ____ _

____Slipping her foot in and pulling herself up into her saddle, she rode her mare over to Roslyn’s horse which she would pony alongside her. Cassandra would do the same for Theia and Veronica’s horse, allowing them to simply ride and be at ease. Sera, of course, would leave just as she had arrived: on foot and ready for anything. The only time throughout the journey back that any of the girls said anything was at the start, when Roslyn handed Olivia the rein. With a soft grin of chapped, dry lips, she held tight to Naomi._ _ _ _

____“I saw that.”_ _ _ _

____Olivia frowned and reformed her posture, taking the rein into her hand and pushing her shoulders back._ _ _ _

____“You saw nothing.”_ _ _ _

____“Aye, still a prude,” she smirked._ _ _ _

____Beyond the horizon, colors of faint blue, orange, and red began to stain the sky with warmth. Throughout the trees, morning birds began to practice their daily songs in quite mumblings and coos. Fog stretched across the ground, wading and breaking around the horses’ legs. The Frostbacks held many secrets in their wrinkled landscape, and that night would be one of them._ _ _ _

____A new status quo for the Inquisitor was arriving with the dawn._ _ _ _


	56. Allied Powers (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescued and returned to Skyhold, the Foxes create a ripple of contention between the Inquisitor and her Advisors: principally Leliana, as she faces the consequences for breaking her word to her. Quelling the conflict enough to have her first solid conversation with her friends in months, the wounds awaiting vengeance between her and Veronica come to a head. Only this time, Olivia has more at her disposal than knives and timid words.

An hour and a half after crossing the threshold of the gates, and all the Foxes were reunited around a fire like days of old. This time it was maintained in the hearth of the Inquisitor’s private quarters, no forest ground or dire weather to withstand. Each woman wrapped in a large blanket, clutching cups or bowls of hot liquids while they recovered their senses and sanities. Naomi, thankfully, became coherent after a dose of medicine and rejuvenation elixir from the Healer’s reserves.

Olivia would have loved to forget the sight she rode into at Skyhold: Leliana and Josephine looking on from the stairs, the Spymaster looking poised to hoist daggers through the Inquisitor’s gut with just the power of her stare. Josephine didn’t even manage a cordial smile. As she would find out later, the realization of a missing Inquisitor, Commander, Seeker, and rogue ally was a rather dramatic wake-up call for both the inner circle and fortress personnel at large.

She paced the floor, standing between them and the assembled audience of Leliana, Josephine, Cassandra, and Sera. An assemblage of women kept in and out of the loop, all with reasons to be at least unimpressed with the Inquisitor’s decisions.

“I will not apologize for my choice,” Olivia insisted after a half hour of exhausted arguing. She had gotten too used to nights full of sleep: her functionable insomnia had gotten rusty.

“Clearly,” Leliana observed, arms folded.

“Leliana, do take care,” Josephine warned, rubbing her palms together slow and pensive.

“One of us must. And you, Cassandra. I am at a loss for how you, of all people, went along with this. Or am I?”

Cassandra, who had stood tall with hands behind her back, had hardly given a single inch of detail as to her complicity. For all they knew she had conspired with her from the beginning, but whether it would be believable was another story. As Olivia continued to pace, disconcerted with the semicircle of possible judgers, the question loomed. The passive aggressive comment at the end only further iced the dynamics in the room.

“The Inquisitor saw reason for decisive intervention in order to prevent further loss of life on her behalf, Leliana.”

Olivia skirted her heel across the rug, coming to a half and staring back at her. Doing her best to maintain an unreadable reaction she bit her lip and scanned back to Leliana, her eyes still sharp and unforgiving.

“She broke her word. Tell me Inquisitor, what is a woman without her word? Free, or helpless?”

“I did what was necessary, Leliana. Now they are safe.”

“At what cost? At whose knowledge? You tread with dragged feet onto a trap. Now, people whose ambitions and designs for you, people we do not know how to track, have all the more reason to antagonize you.”

“I meant what I said before. They cannot harm me, or at least they said so.”

“You honestly believe their false prostration? Even as they threatened to murder your friend in front of your eyes?”

“I believe it because they paired it with their actions. I know more than you think I do, Leliana. I am not an aimless denizen with dual blades and magic!” As much as she wanted to, Olivia bit back the desire to explain her dream she had about them. About her family line, about the Whispers and their secretive operations. Up until that night she had no idea they still endured, and even with them face-to-face, she had more questions than answers. This was not the time to play with pieces on the board she did not yet possess mastery over.

“Everyone has come to understand that, Inquisitor, yet you still relish the foolish attempt in proving it!”

“Inquisitor, Leliana, please,” Josephine mediated, side-stepping into the floor between them

Olivia inhaled and backed off, commencing her pacing again.

Leliana, meanwhile, was full-steam ahead with her argument. Sliding back, shifting her shoulders to where Sera had stationed herself perched on the corner of the Inquisitor’s bed, she continued her interrogation.

“You said twelve adversaries, no?”

Sera shrugged. “Twelve hit...they didn’t start out there, though. Some magic nonsense, like shadows. Shitty stuff, you ask me.”

“So, you two had twelve enemies, twelve enemies with magic, who may or may not have proven violent; to whom your identity could have meant nothing?”

Olivia stopped with her back to them. She crossed her arms across her chest. “We monitored for almost an hour, there was no movement. We wouldn’t have gotten anywhere unless we bit.”

“You bit, alright. Bit, chewed, and choked.”

“We survived and did what we went there for!” Olivia whirled around to face her, teeth bared, “It is over and done!”

“Then perhaps you can file a formal request in the next few hours as to why you would be a better fit for the role of Inquisition Seneschal, then, since you’ve proven yourself capable. You think you are rebuking the unnecessary restrictions on your actions, Inquisitor, but you are confounding control with concern. Tell me if it is only your fate alone you gamble with, if not the entire Inquisition’s! Or for that matter, your allies like Sera, who follow you because they trust your judgement to be grounded in something more than your need to prove your own liberties intact!”

“Leliana, that is enough!” the Ambassador, in a rare show of elevated volume, now turned to face the Spymaster head on.

Silence overtook the room. Not even a bowl or cup was sipped from, as the girls were obviously keeping to themselves and eavesdropping simultaneously. It was hard not to resist, given they were a mere couple yards from them. Refuge with a side of roaring egos.

“Oh, stop defending her, Josie. There are consequences to her actions as there are for all of ours.”

“I don’t need to be taught lessons, Leliana!” Olivia hissed with righteous rage, turning around with clenched fists and tucked chin. “I am quite capable of ascertaining them on my own. Perhaps if you believed in me to be more than my unsatiated temper and flights of fancy – as you all fear I am – you would be more understanding. As it is now, if you are looking to inflict shame on me for what I have done you can take it to the shrine and pray for it, because I’ll be damned if I ever regret it!”

Josephine’s lips parted and she relegated herself to the sidelines. There was no longer a point to stopping the tempers between her friend and her leader. Olivia had sunk her teeth in when just as Sister Nightingale had her talons, and now the only thing left to do was to watch them hash it out. Behind Olivia’s staked side of the battle her friends all peered over to watch, faces wrapped and framed by wool. Their first glimpse of her new lot in life was proving lively.

“There can be no Inquisition without a leader willing to stand by their word and the trust of their advisors and allies. These bonds are not just yours to manipulate! You are beloved and you know it, and you willingly reap what you sow!” Leliana gathered her hands behind her back. Her posture, mirroring who she was while on the other side of the War Table, an implicit tactic. A grab at the ethos of her place in the Inquisition fold and Olivia’s life. The woman who had counseled her, allowed her to confide, and pushed her forward while others criticized her. Even if her words were weapons, it was her confidence that twist the knife.

“I am nothing if not indebted to my loyalties, Leliana. Most of all you. But do not make me break my heart to share between my allies here and the allies I knew before I was ever of consequence to any of you!” Olivia stood her ground despite the fury. Leliana had thrown her insecurities in her face in that moment. Spread thin but not broken.

“Can I say somethin’?” Sera slipped off the bed to her feet, graceful and keen. Her hips swayed as she came to Leliana’s left side. She was timid with so much anger in the air, but it wouldn’t stop her.

“Of course, Sera,” Josephine’s Antivan accent diced through the animosity decisively; for a moment, the argument felt like a simple conversation on a balcony somewhere with tea and politics.

“I…look, it was all stupid. The people, the secrets, everything. She was acting dumb. But, the Inquisitor…” she softened up, waving her arm towards Olivia loosely. “I went with her because I know she’d do the same if it were my ass hung up to dry on the line. Dunno who she’d sucker into the rescue, but…I know she’d find a way. That’s why I tagged along, not ‘cause she had me under some spell. I’d hate her guts if she did that.”

Olivia’s eyes grew heavy as tears grew along the rims of her eyelashes. Her expression deadpan but her welling sorrows breaking cover. Sera was right; she was always right, in her own ways that defied physics and sense.

“I agree with Sera,” Cassandra affirmed, her hands too behind her back as she twisted towards Leliana’s direction. Her agreement only exacerbated the shock Olivia felt in her bones to see such dedications from her allies. The cumbersome nature of her guilt only grew from it.

Leliana’s quiet disapproval melted into a palpable heartache that even Olivia sensed. They locked eyes, and where Leliana saw growing tears, Olivia saw a defensiveness betrayed. She had lost men to this ordeal, and as far as she knew she stood to lose her leader and spiritual mentee. If that were to come to pass she would have been left with nothing but the failure of her stewardship to console her. Yes, Sera and Cassandra had demonstrated their masterful fealty, but it was in Leliana’s irrational criticisms that an indominable devotion resided.

In that, Olivia lost her willingness to hurt her more.

“I will discuss this with you personally later. We all need rest with what I have put everyone through. For now, at least let me ensure my friends are cared for. That is all I ask.”

Leliana glanced at the fire. Her fatigue showed itself in a more honest way, then. Exhaling slightly, she rolled her shoulders and stepped off towards the stairs.

“Some of us do not have the privilege of rest,” she said lastly. After her, Josephine followed, giving Olivia one passing glass of compassion before doing so. Sera and Cassandra then, shoulder-to-shoulder. In Sera she saw sympathy -- a bit of soreness, but sympathy all the same. In the Seeker there was politeness and an immediate look-away after nodding. Despite her siding with Olivia she did not yield sweetness. Maybe that was what Olivia deserved after all was said and done.

Eventually the door shut for the final time, and she was able to put down the metaphorical sword and turn her attention to her friends.

“Well, you shat the bed,” Roslyn said with a brittle, dry throat as Olivia came around to sit on the short table between the couches and fireplace. She had to scoot several messy stacks of papers, but seating was seating.

“You’re one to talk,” Olivia giggled sorely, sliding her flattened hands between her knees. “Is everyone alright?

 

The Foxes all nodded in their own ways, though one of them was quieter and less amiable for movement than the rest. That one was, of course, the one who had the most to lose from Olivia failing to regain her temper after the argument.

Naomi rest her bowl in her cupped hands, face sweet but exhausted. “You look so different, Olivia. Stronger.”

“I am one of those things but not the other, I’m afraid,” Olivia replied with a slouch in her posture. “I am just happy to know you all are safe.”

“Is this where you have to ask us everything we know?” Roslyn asked while slurping soup, ever one for proper table manners even with four walls and a roof surrounding her.

Olivia chuckled. “Nothing you’re not willing to tell. Theia,” Olivia said as she turned to her right towards the white-haired woman huddled to herself and looking pitiful, “she was the last one of any of you that I saw.”

Theia didn’t speak even when addressed directly. Looking like she was biting back a sour taste in her mouth, she lowered her eyes to her own soup. She was the human personification of penance.

“They didn’t tell us much,” Roslyn continued as she licked her teeth. “When they spoke in front of us it was like those whispers that they did around you. We couldn’t hear for shit. But they didn’t torture us or starve us. It was like they needed us like livestock, like capital for something. They wore us down until our magic wouldn’t be enough combined to fend them off.”

“They caught us en-route months ago,” Naomi added as her thumb rubbed her own forearm. “They told us that they were ensuring your safety, like your own personal guard. When we felt something suspicious was afoot and tried to lose them, that is when they took us down.”

“They kept you there for months?”

“No, I wish they did though, shit,” Roslyn shook her head. “They took us to so many remote locations, never answering a single question. All that was consistent was the snow on the ground. Blasted Frostbacks.”

Olivia lowered her brow. People masquerading as being her security was bizarre but not surprising given the letters Leliana intercepted. The tone of both those missives and their presence at the cottage both struck her as invested, if not a bit fixated. She then frowned as she looked down to her side. There, she saw bent and ripped parchment notes from her studying books. While she had sat on couches and in bed learning from these books her friends were wrangled and belittled like livestock because of her. It all felt sort of hollow.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered, sighing as she put her hand to her face. “This is all my fault.”

“Pff, we all know whose fault it is, and it ain’t yours, Gem.”

“Roslyn!” Naomi chastised, coughing a bit.

“What?! It’s the truth, and I’m sick Theia being puckered over there while Veronica acts like she’s got a fade cloak tucked between her pale cheeks.”

“Roslyn, knock it off,” Theia growled, setting her bowl onto the floor. “This isn’t the time.”

“No, Theia, she’s right,” Veronica spoke now that all the ground surrounding her existence had seem to crumble. After all, not only did she have her betrayal to account for, but now Olivia’s refusal to sacrifice her despite how much she had it coming.

Olivia’s stomach dropped. So, this was how it was going to be? No fight, no brawl in the courtyard after some fantastic reveal. No shocking rage, no screaming. Yet.

“Ro, you shou—”

“No, Theia. Stop babying me. I can handle my own damn battles. You made it clear enough, remember?”

Olivia sat up tall, feet scooting a bit. “Well. Then do it, Veronica.”

Everyone looked from side to side, exchanging expressions of both concern and vindication. At last, the time had come. Traveling for months and being held captive had only intensified their desires to see wrongs be righted, apparently. Roslyn stood up and walked over to Naomi’s couch, taking her place beside her so that all four were now tucked closest to the corner seat where Veronica then sat on trial.

“I…” she swallowed roughly, gripping her bowl like a prayer, “I am so sorry, Olivia. You have no idea how sorry I am.”

“Oh, I want ideas. I want several. Well-described, artistic ones. Would you like a pen and paper to design some diagrams, possibly?”

“I…I know you have no reason to listen to me. I would skewer me on sight if it were me and not you. I…I know that just makes it all true.”

“And what is ‘all that’?” Olivia replied curtly, knees spreading apart as she took a wider position on the table.

“That…that you are in every way the better person, and I was never deserving of your friendship.”

Olivia sat back and took in the whole picture: Veronica’s sorry face, eyes pasted to the ground, hair oily and tangled like a rat’s nest. It was a sight for sore eyes, and vengeful ones at that. Flabbergasted, she held back a laugh that refused to be denied. She had to stand up and walk towards the fire, arm folded under her chest and her other holding her hand to her mouth as she laughed louder and louder. Cheerful and slightly insidious.

“Oh, you’re in for it,” Roslyn whispered like a sibling at a dinner table.

“Enough, Roslyn!” Olivia barked assertively, turning around and facing them again. “Veronica, did you tell them what you told me? And I mean everything. Every last word you uttered before you took my weapons and abandoned me like a dirty coat in that damn closet?”

Veronica lowered her chin like a dog being shamed for their accident in the hallway.

“I’m guess your attention to detail, as shitty as it is, didn’t account for it all. That you called me a whore, insulted my dignity and my intentions. That you threatened to leave me to die if I didn’t do as you said. Friends who are supposed to have each other’s backs, friends who had fished each other out of skirmish after skirmish, and you spat in my face when it mattered most. And for what? For your paranoia and jealousy, which you harbored after years of me dealing with both Theia’s and your bullshit!”

Roslyn and Naomi both bit back their lips, Naomi raising her brows high enough to nearly touch the damn ceiling. The mute lioness among them had found her voice since they last saw her, and by their imaginations it was probably a long time coming.

Veronica took a breath. “Olivia, I know that I—”

“Shut up, Veronica. Shut up ab--”

“Did Theia tell you what happened after I found her?! Or are you back to kissing her ass and hating me?”

“I never hated you, you insufferable bitch!”

“Well I may be an insufferable bitch but at least I didn’t tell the woman who came all the way to save her that she may have been secretly in love with her best friend for years!”

Naomi covered her hand with her mouth, and Roslyn sat back against the couch, pulling a pillow onto her lap. They were the only realistic parts of Olivia’s world in that moment; everything else seemed to fall apart. She dared to look at Theia, who was staring off into space, sucking her teeth and tears falling across her long, pale cheeks. She looked like she hadn’t taken a breath in an hour.

“…Wh-what?” Olivia muttered breathlessly, hands falling to her sides.

Veronica glared at Theia from her periphery. “Tell her, Theia. Tell her what you must have conveniently left out your little heroic tale of staying behind for your one true friend.”

“Theia, that can’t be tr—”

“I didn’t…!” Theia interrupted anxiously before gritting her jaw. It was taking everything for her not to dissent into defensive panic. She stood up and walked behind the couch, hands on her hips as she let the blanket fall onto the cushion. Her back towards them as all but Veronica followed her with their gaze.

“You lied to me,” Olivia breathed, mouth agape. “In the mountains. You made it seem like it was all Veronica. But you vindicated her…she was right, she was right to be scared, because of you!”

“She was the one that left you, I had no idea you were with her until…until I…”

“Until I told her that you had come, and she chose then of all times to have an identity crisis over which woman she loved.”

Roslyn made a tsk-tsk sound with her lips, pulling her knees up against her and glancing at Naomi. “You owe me a sovereign.”

“Lyn! Hush!” Naomi chided, elbowing her through her blanket.

Olivia couldn’t believe what was happening. As if her grip on the truth wasn’t already sordid and temperamental, just when she thought she had caught Veronica’s tail once and for all, the chase got turned upside down.

“Theia,” Olivia said as she broke away from the fireplace, “tell me you didn’t do this.”

“Oh, she did it, alright. Had the audacity to tell me that I was a fool for following her, and then when she found out you had come, got all romantic. Maybe it was her all this time! Maybe we were mismatched from the beginning! How could I have been so blind! Meanwhile we’re in the middle of a fucking trail with Templars and Rebel Mages on every inch like flies on a Druffalo’s backside.”

“Theia!” Olivia yelled a second time.

Theia finally turned around, her eyes red and face gleaming with wetness. “I did, okay! I panicked! Everything she says is true.”

“Sweet Maker,” Naomi sighed, grabbing her cup and putting it to her lips.

“When I found out you had tracked her all that way for me I thought I was having a revelation. It was not until I thought you gone that…that I…”

“That you what, Theia? Thought you would have a nice consolation prize?” Veronica hopped onto her feet to complete the triangle between them. The tides were shifting quicker than the Amaranthine in a typhoon, fingers ready for pointing and wraths unbidden.

“No! That was never my intention! You know that!”

“Of course I do, because you let us all go! You wouldn’t stop digging your heels in, always hoping she somehow lived through that shit fest! For what? So you could tell her that you figured it all out and that you weren’t in love with her? Don’t play me for an idiot.”

“I stayed because she was one of us. Unlike you, I don’t forget when loyalty and compassion are owed!”

“Well guess what, you indominable fool! She is alive! So, tell her everything your heart and soul wish to scream from the rooftops like you almost did at the Temple, and be done with it!”

“Veronica, I told you! It was grief and regret that confused me! Will you ever be anything besides a Mabari with a bone!?”

Olivia hardly breathed more than three or four times while they squabbled. Years’ worth of picking apart their toils and being the third person. Years of splitting hairs and being diplomatic for the sake of them both. Always advocating for their bond, always trying to mend fences. She thought she had seen the truth a long time ago, but no. It was not until she could see them both spitting and cursing each other, failing to see that what their irresponsibility had gambled with, that she understood. Her alleged death had become marginalia in the grand scheme of their dysfunction, and that was astonishing all on its own. Astonishing and enraging.

“Even after all this time, you two are still the children I met in the Circle,” she said low, eyes overflowing with hostile tears.

Theia blinked and looked back at her, bloodshot eyes and red lips pressed. “Olivia, I—”

“You shut your mouth. Both of you. Do you have any fucking idea how long you made us all cringe and cower while you played your mind games? How long I had to sit by and listen to your pathetic mumblings about her, about how she vexed you, refused you, played with your emotions? Did you think that we humored you both for that long while trying to survive because it was reasonable? You unmitigated, selfish women. We endured because we loved you, because we cared. Because our oaths were sworn to protect each other.”

“Gem, I am so so—”

“No, Theia. No ‘Gem,’ no sorry.” She then stomped her way to her dresser across the room. Yanking the middle drawer open, she sifted through the piles of clothing until she found what she was looking for: the heather grey scarf she had worn on their travels. The one that linked them to each other when both thought the other dead. She rushed back to where she was by the fire, clutching the scarf in the air.

“I am done with being your piecemeal. You have confused feelings? Sort them out yourself and clean up your messes. And you!” she turned to Veronica, eyes flared almost beyond the point of possible eye contact, “you were right. You were right about my motivations, for I was incapacitated by love. A tried and true, fierce, infallible love. One that pushed me to my limits and drove me mad. Oh yes,” her voice cracked as her eyes gleamed with new tears, “I knew a great...a great love once. But it was defiled and distorted by jealousy, and now it, along with the woman you belittled, is gone.”

With no more warning she bundled up the scarf into a ball and tossed it into the fire. Roslyn flinched, eyes blinking wide. Naomi, on the other hand, looked ready as if she had seen it coming for years but since lost hope it would ever happen. The fabric burned cheaply, a testament to its inexpensive and weathered state. There was no more need for tokens of children and their affections. A sharp pop went off with embers and smoke, a plume of charcoal air stealing into the room and dissipating around them.

She stood there watching it all vanish. The promises, the ties that kept their knots throughout space and time.

“Olivia…” Veronica said, stepping forward. “I…”

“No.”

“Olivia!”

“You will rectify your sins, as a friend should.” Olivia wiped her face with her wrist, sniffling air. “You both will.”

She stepped back to stare them both down. Theia, paralyzed by her guilt, the only thing lively about her being her tears. Veronica, never one to cry, but as close as Olivia had ever seen her. She didn’t have to read off the ledger of their crimes against her: it was all on their faces. Once, Olivia had dreamed of them being flesh and blood before her. Now, they were more than the ghosts she was haunted by – they were ruins of a life long gone, breathing but barren.

“You have committed crimes on both Fereldan and Free Marcher soil. For this, I hereby recruit you into service of the Inquisition, as a method of atonement. You will serve me and my Advisors as we combat our enemy and work to save this world from itself.” She swallowed drily, peering down then towards Naomi and Roslyn, the unfortunately confined audience. “You two, I invite to do the same, but you are not obligated. Should you choose to stay you will be granted the same privileges and liberties: pay, lodging, meals, and recognition as Inquisition agents. However, whereas you will be allowed to choose your disciplines of work, I will be assigning Veronica and Theia to theirs.”

Veronica scoffed. She never took things laying down. Not like Theia did when she knew she had done wrong.

“You think you can convince us to be your punching bags? To be your task handlers until the day you choose to forgive us, if that ever comes?”

“I have forgiven you in this moment, Veronica,” Olivia said dutifully as she clasped her hands together behind her. “I don’t have time to carry grudges unworthy of my energy. I am the Inquisitor, and my foremost responsibility is defeating Corypheus and his people. You are under my roof, my jurisdiction. But, go ahead, I dare you to rebuff the woman you left to die when she offers you both a home and a cause to redeem yourself with. The woman who is owed more than what one or two punches across your face could ever provide.”

Veronica looked back at Theia, who in turn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was a fate worse than a fistfight or all-out screaming match. This was a reckoning from a friend who had ascended beyond their realm of belittlement or affection. A friend who had a sense of worth they could not define.

“We’ll stay with you, Olivia,” Naomi vowed as she stood up from the couch, weak in her posture but confident enough. Roslyn nodded once behind her as she kept clutching the pillow. Their short congress between themselves yielded renewed dedication. “Or should I say, my Lady Inquisitor.”

“Thank you.”

Olivia rubbed her palms together and walked for her desk. Coming around to stand by her chair, she picked up the stack of books in front of her. “Theia, you will be assigned to the Ambassador’s office and to my newly instated contingent of Mage troops for training. You will work under Ambassador Montilyet and myself, and if you do well you will be sent on missions on our behalf to secure treaties and requisitions where I and Josephine cannot. Veronica, you will join her for training, but you will be delegated to the scouting and patrol guard once fit enough. If my Spymaster sees enough potential in you as I remember you having for more…discrete, operations, she may choose to recruit you. It would be an honor, and you will treat it as such.”

Theia blinked slowly, gripping her elbow with her arm. “Yes, my Lady.”

“Theia, are you serious?” Veronica railed, chin lurching out as she put her hands on her hips. “You can’t be going along with her!”

“Veronica,” Naomi interjected, “you have no legs to stand on anymore. Do it, or you’re no longer one of us.”

“What she said,” Roslyn added, letting her feet touch down on the ground again. “Olivia is right. It’s enough with the child’s play. She needs us, and it’s time to buck up or shut up.”

“I could always have you conscripted to the Grey Wardens. They are low on ranks and need all the help they can get slaying darkspawn for us. I’m sure they’d be delighted to have you,” Olivia threatened as she set down half of the books on the opposite end of her desk. She was not only in control of the chess board, she was the chess board, and the look of Veronica’s inflamed disgust made it all the better.

“You will have me killed sooner or later,” Veronica accused, stepping back.

Olivia sighed, opening the book she kept in her hands. Licking her index and thumb finger, she strummed through the pages looking busy. “Call it even then. Maybe you’ll be as lucky as I am and be resurrected from the brink. Andraste could have become less picky since she picked me from the sorry litter.”

Roslyn stifled a laugh, the choking sound from her throat echoing awkwardly across the room. Once more, Veronica looked to Theia, who was quiet and subordinate. If she did dissent, she would be all on her own. Not even Theia would be there to catch her if she decided to swan dive down from the already rock-bottom level she had succumbed to. Pinned and out of options, Veronica paced towards the fire and folded her arms. She looked primed to roll onto the floor and flail her limbs in protest. Indeed, morning had arrived on the Foxes, and with it the inescapable progression of time.

“Veronica, what happened to being sorry?” Olivia coaxed, folding an ear on her selected page to mark it for later. “I thought I was the far better person.”

Everyone’s gaze went from the blonde to brunette among them, enthralled bitter-sweetly.

“It no longer matters what the truth is,” Ro grumbled as she stepped towards the balcony door, peering with jaded eyes out onto the mountains. “I’m always going to be the villain in the story. A jealous, vexed vixen who doesn’t know her toes from her tits.”

Olivia shook her head. Moping and sulking, a Fereldan pastime if you were to go by Veronica’s traditions. “I hate to tell you, but the villain is the corrupted Magister wielding an army of red Templars, the one who is angry about my glowing hand putting a stop to his designs on a chaotic world. You, my friend, are your own category of unfortunate derision.”

Veronica huffed and nodded, kicked while she was already down. The room was calmer than it had ever been, until Roslyn jerked her head up. Her eyes were wide, hair tousled around her face.

“Wait a minute, what’s this about a glowing hand?!”

Olivia rolled her eyes closed and took a breath. "There isn't enough time in the day. Theia, why didn't you tell them?"

Theia shook her head. "It seemed like something you would want to keep on a need to know basis."

"Need to know?! I--"

Naomi stepped forward, gate slow and careful to make due with her limited energy level. "Now, come on. Let us end the hair-splitting for now. Olivia," she said, coming around the desk and taking her sweet friend by the arm, "I think friends deserve more than rescue and soup." At that, she smiled and pulled Olivia into an embrace, her arms going around her neck. Olivia was caught off guard, stilled into submission by the sudden sweetness Naomi was always good at in times of disarray. Her stone face broke down as she gazed back at Roslyn and Theia. Argument became a privilege in that moment, one she thought she would never have again. 

Giving in, Olivia wrapped her arms tightly around Naomi's fragile and slightly malnourished body and pulled her in tighter. Her ribs and spine were more pronounced than at any point she could recall, save for when they first escaped from Ostwick. That would change. She would be sure of it. Burying her face into Naomi's shoulder she tried her best not to have another meltdown, but dammit, all that time and languish and Naomi still smelled of rich flowers. 

"It's been too long, my dear," Naomi whispered for comfort. It had been too long. Too long, and too difficult.


	57. The Wrong Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week after Olivia's hazardous rescue mission proves a success, and adjustments are proving a bit rough around Skyhold. While her ambitions stand on slippery ground, she has to come face to face with Leliana about her break with orders. Their argument goes deep, and Olivia leaves more uncertain about what she wants than before -- particularly with a certain someone.

_Pluitanis, 9:41 Dragon. The Storm Coast --_

They had been at it for almost two hours, hot breathing and grit teeth. The Inquisitor was vigorous despite all she had been through, a true testament to her innate stamina. Everyone in accompaniment who used to be affronted by their public display quickly grew used to it as a part of the routine -- indeed, they could rarely go more than a half a day without being all over each other. Curse words flying, strenuous groans following them more often than not. Even Varric, who had made a career of being a seemingly omniscient witness to his allies’ personal misadventures, seemed overwhelmed. But he could never get himself to look away. How could he, when they were doing it in the middle of the coastal wilderness with torrential downpour falling on their heads?

“Tell me then, Seeker, if the map says twenty miles south, why we are having to veer east into the mountains if we can just follow the shore?!”

“Because the shore will be more difficult for us to navigate covertly. The mountains provide us cover.”

“They also add hours onto our trek which we could resolve if we just go down the beach!” 

“The ‘beach’ is better observed from elevation, where we can gain better knowledge of the field.”

“What better knowledge than head-on? Maker’s ass,” Olivia heaved as she dragged herself further up the embankment. The irregularity of her breathing combined with the rain damn-near blanketing her face made her commitment to complaining all the more impressive.

“I thought you liked direct action? All about facing the problem instead of...that...bullshit like finesse and nuance…”

“Just because I am direct does not mean I am not strategic,” Cassandra corrected, vastly more fit and prepared for the challenging terrain as she dug her feet in each step up the gravel path.

“Just because I am direct does not mean I am not strategic...” Olivia mocked Cassandra’s accent in a sideways glance at Varric. Easily amused by Olivia’s silliness, he smiled and suppressed a laugh -- there was no breath to spare while they hiked the abominable mountain the Seeker saw fit to conquer. 

“I heard that!” Cassandra sighed, maintaining her lead at the front of the pack. 

“I meant you to!” Olivia replied instantly, dusting off her dirtied gloves, sliding in place after a faulty misstep on some loose rocks. The grading sound prompted Cassandra to look back and ensure the Herald wouldn’t make it her sixth faceplant of the morning.

“I’m fine,” Olivia insisted as she steadied herself, arms out in the air, “But by all means, push me off the cliff already like I know you’re dreaming of doing!” 

“I would do no such thing,” Cassandra glared before turning forward.

“Oh...well, th--”

“The last thing your mouth needs is a method of echoing.” 

Olivia stopped, posture lurching upright. As Solas passed her, he had a playful grin on his lips that he did his best to tuck away. Her cheeks grew hot against the coastal fog, and she glared up at the now yards between her and Cassandra.

Exhaling sharply and with offense, she followed and muttered insults with an Orlesian tongue that spat as much rain as spit from between her lips. Roughly translated and put together in a sentence, her rebuttal was scathing: _Of course, how could you know what a woman’s mouth needs in the first place?_

\-- 

_Late Umbralis, 9:42 Dragon. Skyhold._

“An hour into morning training?” Olivia rubbed her face with enough dreaded force to smear off her eyebrows. “What even happened?”

“Well…” Josephine rubbed a flat palm on the other, standing tall but with slanted weight in front of the Inquisitor’s desk. “There is subterfuge to sort through. But the Seeker and Commander have both insisted that they do not attend the same training slots together in the future. Perhaps that is a fair and practical measure for the time being while tensions...settle.”

It had been a week since Olivia had brought the girls to Skyhold -- a week granted for them to settle in and recover health-wise for their responsibilities. Naomi and Roslyn had settled in rather nicely: Naomi in the Healer’s ranks, using Olivia’s study nook in the tower when she, herself was unable to. Roslyn, quick to make use of swords and spears, surprising her fellow recruits with how much she knew for a scrappy young Mage. But, of course, it was Veronica and Theia proving uncooperative with the plans that they, themselves did not control.

Olivia shook her head as she flipped through some pages in the rather large book in front of her, putting her thumbnail to her teeth and biting down. If Corypheus didn’t cause her to devolve into a ball of nerves and blonde hair, they would. 

“Are they alright? And by that, I mean, are they both in one piece?”

“Yes, only minor injuries have been reported. There is, however, word that one of the merchants will be seeking compensation to rebuild their stand.” 

“Maker,” Olivia fell back on her chair. “Well, I suppose I care enough for that to be good news. Thank you for informing me, Josephine. I hope that Theia’s shift at your office this afternoon proves less violent, given she will be on her own to sink or swim.”

“Certainly, Inquisitor.” Josephine hesitated, expression deep in measured thought while she took hold of her board and assigned papers. “You said she was a daughter of Bann Trevelyan, correct?”

“Yes, the youngest. Though she is not on speaking terms with them.”

“I see. Hm, well, we shall see if any procured tact from her upbringing has yet to be lost. It will be useful to have an additional person on hand to help solidify those treaty contracts we secured last week.”

Olivia chuckled dryly. Absentmindedly as she read and took down notes, she admitted aloud: “Oh, believe me, it is one of the few things she does have honed.”

Josephine made a face, a playful grin to match her curiosity. “There is one idea that I thought would be helpful for this ordeal. Perhaps a quaint, but pointed banquet to celebrate your friends’ safe rescue? A chance to diffuse some of the attitudes surrounding their acclimation.”

“Attitudes?” Olivia blinked, “They are four Mages, four of many here. Has it really caused that substantial of a disturbance?”

The Inquisitor stood, grabbing several rolled scrolls she had set aside. Sliding out of her chair and making for the bookshelf behind her, she took care to redistribute them to their proper place. Keeping hands busy while difficult topics were broached was a classic coping mechanism, as her Advisors could point out by the way she sorted through missives during Council meetings, played with board pieces, and chewed her nails. Josephine was a veteran at that point with regards to working with Olivia’s idiosyncratic quirks. Where once she wondered aloud if she was paying attention, she took it as an invitation to continue the discussion.

Clutching her writing board to the side of her chest, she did just that. “Your Worship, there have been...conversations, picked up by Leliana and her people. Some of the Senior members of the Rebellion are concerned that you have lapsed on your agenda of autonomous alliances by having conscripted your friends into service. On the other hand, you have several non-Magi affiliated who are cautious towards the new programs you have installed for Mages to train and work alongside those not magically-inclined. Both sides fear that you are allowing the other to shape your perspective. I know we have discussed this at length in the past, so you will not be as surprised. I do think that providing opportunities for communal bonding is still the best course of action.”

Olivia fell back from the bookshelf, having placed the last scroll back in its outlined place by the time Josephine was on her last well-polished sentence. She pressed the skin between her thumb and index finger, rubbing in tandem with the pressure in her head. How was she to foresee that her friends being brought into the fold would be a political maneuver? Blast it all, of course it would be interpreted as such. It was an amateurish assumption to think her actions would be anything but political.

A morning breeze sifted through the tapestries hanging loosely around the balcony doors. Its cold wake made goosebumps surge on the back of her neck, polarized with the warmth in her cheeks.

“You have just recovered time from the Santinalia celebration, Josephine. I would not have you further distracted from your vital duties for the sake of pomp and reverie here, though I appreciate the willingness,” she answered, a melancholic lucidity in her voice. Turning around to face her well-accomplished Ambassador standing tall and at the ready for whatever plan she did have, Olivia’s mind was at a loss. Her policies were hanging by a thread that faced a sharp knife on one side and a lively flame on the other.

“Theia and Veronica were not conscripted, they were recruited at their word. They owe me a great deal personally for their wrongs, but I cannot have those wrongs be aired out for everyone to pick apart. It would descend us into salacious chaos, and I doubt my friendships that I have sacrificed much to sustain would survive it.”

“I gathered as much, Inquisitor,” Josephine sympathized, taking down shorthand notes. “But I do not have to tell you that four wayward women suddenly posted to positions, rumored to have traveled with a Mage known as the Black Dove, will continue to spur discussion.”

“And that, we cannot control either way. It is best to remain steady and hope that with time and trial, bonds remain strong. Do me a favor and clarify with anyone we identify as spreading the idea that they are conscripted. If needed, have them brought into either my office or yours, where a fair explanation can be offered.” 

“As you wish, Your Worship. I have little doubt you will ensure it.” 

They exchanged smiles, Josephine’s so much more assured than Olivia’s. “Thank you, Josephine. Is that all?”

“I believe so, at least before this morning’s Council meeting.”

“...So, no word from Leliana besides what she passes on through you as mediator, then?” 

Josephine deflated in attitude, a shoulder hunching up and down. “If I am to speak...candidly, Inquisitor, she has hardly spoken a word to me about the conflict since it transpired. I believe she prefers it to remain sequestered to the both of you as concerns rather than spread discontent. Based on my knowledge of her I would say she awaits your approach. Until then, it is decorum and distance she favors.”

A full week with no one-on-one communication between the Spymaster and Inquisitor was starting to instigate ripples within the inner circle, and thus only a matter of time before it would extend into the fortress at large. It did not help that Leliana and Olivia had been close confidants, or rather, Olivia had confided a great deal to Leliana as an Advisor and more experienced friend. The hot and cold oscillation had outlived its privacy.

Running her fingers through the side of her tousled, let down hair, Olivia did the ‘math’: She promised a talk, and with Leliana’s accusation of her untrustworthiness, she was even more compelled to follow through. But that also meant subjecting herself to her decisive temper once more. Between the Mages, her friends’ antics, and other more anomalous concerns, she doubted that she could stomach it.

“Very well,” she conceded, coming around the side of her desk to stand at Josephine’s side. “Much to her protest, I do go by my word.”

“Her criticisms were less about your honor, Inquisitor, than they were about her fears in being unable to protect those whom she cares for. Remember that when you do go to her; I of all people can understand how easy it is to forget.” Josephine walked towards the stairs, Olivia in toe for the sake of solidarity and manners.

“I will do my best. In the meantime, I will work on those estimates for our plans for the Graves. I should have them to you for the meeting.” 

Seeing Ambassador Montilyet out, Olivia walked towards the couch and mounted herself on the back of it, collapsing with a huff. Once perched she let her arms and legs go limp on either side. She was like a tossed rag doll, hair in her face and posture egregiously misshapen. From that position she could understand why babies loved to be swaddled powerlessly: it was easy, uncomplicated, and quiet. On the other side of the couch with the cushions and pillows, blankets were messily piled. Naomi and Theia, rather than strictly sleep in their own allotted cots with other personnel, had hulled themselves up in the Inquisitor’s quarters. The couch had become the epicenter of their occupation. 

After a brief half-minute of dozing, she turned her head in order to stare at the piled books and mugs on the table between her and the fire. A soft, but tired grin cracked on her face.

_“You have ink on your face. Again. Do you write with your fingers and not a quill?”_

_“Oh, hah, very funny, Cassandra. Make the woman with the broken ribs laugh. I can’t help it, I’m working on a bed and not a desk.”_

_“And who’s fault is that? I told you I do not mind taking your dictation.”_

_“Are you going to continue penalizing me for daring to work, or are you going to go get me some more soup from the pot? I’ll trade you my bread, it’s not stale, I...I swe--oh, blast it, I cannot say it with a straight face--ow!”_

_“After you almost had me chip a tooth the last time you did, I am relieved to know you have a conscience.”_

She underestimated how easy it was to be haunted by her own laughter. Once upon a time she would conjure the memories of the girls and their misadventures to find it. If she could remember the sound, she could remember the sensation of it: her cheeks sore, her chest bubbling. But with her friends returned, her laughter had only found a new place to hide: in the image of Cassandra at the desk in the Inquisitor’s tent at Adamant while laid bandaged across the way. Her face lit by torch and candle light, sword and dagger hung at the door almost as often as on her hip.

And then, of course, there was the way she laughed. Well, not laughter, per se. A chuckle, a warm bubbling of admitted sympathy. Heartfelt, hard-won, and worth the wait.

The sight of the dirty dishes and candles stopped being comforting with the memory of her solace and Cassandra’s hands holding them. She pushed herself up off the couch and slid off, hoping to shake it all off. Time and sentimentality were a disagreeable pairing in one’s heart, and as she rubbed her arms nervously whilst walking back to her desk, they were once again at war within her soul. 

One more week, and the only conversation was one in the middle of nowhere, where Cassandra only had the guts to say her name. Oh, and ride after her and save her life if needed. But that was marginalia. 

She looked out to the balcony as she sat herself down at her desk in a return to work. The sky was light blue and unburdened by clouds, the first time in several days. The breeze that had served company to her and Josephine had subsided, but the air was still fragrant. Leather and pine, by her imagination. Subtle smoke from the forge chimney. She could name it all, speak to the nuances and their origins. Somewhere, bread was being baked, metal was being melted down, tests were being run, and books were being read. In those passing half-hours of microcosmic productivity, Olivia could almost convince herself against her fear that she was letting everyone down. 

\--

In Orlais, pyre burnings for nobles tended to bleed into one another in both trends and traditions. The same overly-reverent hymns, the same false weeping. But the one commonality Olivia fixated on was the drums: the processional beat played when families and loved ones entered the space and took their positions surrounding the pyre. It was solemn, old, reverent in its pacing: a relic of passed-down arts that remained unchanged by fickle Orlesian tastes. The bass was so deep that even in the outdoor area of her family’s land where her father was burned, the beat pummeled the space between her ribs. It also caused a slight headache between her ears, though she couldn’t decide whether to blame it on that or the night of crying she had done her best to suppress.

For some disheartening reason, her memory of the sound followed her as she walked up towards the Raven’s nest. Her footsteps on every stair were in tandem with it, so transfixed that perhaps a bowl of burning incense would appear in her hands. Once at her destination, however, the drums’ echoes vanished, replaced by the sight of Leliana whirling around to face the visitor, scout at her side.

Her stare was as deadly as it had been that night over a week prior. It was as if they had merely walked off from her chambers up into the loft to keep going at it.

“Leliana,” Olivia bowed her head before coming forward. Dressed in a tunic top and breeches with mud boots on, she had hoped the lack of armor or finery would help things be less combative. Or, as she feared, she had merely made the prospective job of stabbing her easier.

“Inquisitor. You did not inform me you’d be coming at this morning’s council meeting,” Leliana replied, her attitude unmoved. She took one look at her subordinate and nodded once, and with his swift withdrawal through the door there were no more witnesses save for the ravens.

“This comes from the warning I gave you that night in my quarters, unfortunately.”

“Oh? I had forgotten that such a measure had been agreed upon.”

“Leliana, we know that is one capability you do not have.”

Leliana smirked dryly, stepping forward and leaning against one of the thin wood beams that dotted the roundabout. “I am a busy woman, Inquisitor. If you’ve come to take up my time with compliments, I’m afraid I must direct you elsewhere.”

She was not going to make this easy. If anything, Leliana had ensured victory by having Olivia be the one to step onto adversarial territory. This was the cost of prioritizing emotional bonds over tactical ones -- dissenting from the scoreboard even with the knowledge that your success would be partially defined by it.

Girding herself further, Olivia came to the edge of the wood table several feet from Sister Nightingale, propping her thigh atop the corner and crossing her arms. 

“I did not come for games. I came to apologize.”

Leliana’s brow raised ever-so-slightly, so faint that any less-observant person would have thought it a mirage. For the Inquisitor, however, those tells were definitive.

“I know you don’t believe me. But I am sincere as I will ever be.”

“You presume much, thinking that is what I was after in the first place,” Leliana countered, tucking one leg in front of the other with her toe planted on the ground. “Has Josie convinced you that this is all my hurt feelings, and not a professional disagreement with your choice?” 

“Does it matter? Perhaps it is both. You know as well as I that our communications have not always been purely work, Leliana. I have looked to you for much and depended on you a great deal. For that I owe you.”

“That would make your betrayal more insulting, then, no?”

“Leliana.” Olivia bit her lip and leaned back, her chin tilting upwards as she fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Hm. After all this time we have invested, you still squirm against the standards you are upheld to.”

Had the mortification of the moment not been overwhelming, Olivia could have sworn she was arguing with Cassandra during the Haven days of the Inquisition. Softer in rhetoric and more nuanced in language, but the same insistence. How she got the two to switch opinions in less than a year, she would never know.

Olivia exhaled as she rubbed the side of her shoulder. “Months ago, you found me in the Skyhold garden shaking with fear at the brevity of my role here. You told me I had a chance to do something remarkable -- to redefine myself in the face of uncertainty. I...I was so scared that I pushed away that advice for a long time.”

“You still do, but, I suspect that is not what you believe.” Leliana bounced her weight against the beam, adjusting her position but standing ground.

“No, I…I do. You are right.” She slid off the desk and walked forward towards the rail. “The difference between who I was then and who I am now, is that I never would have had the guts to talk back to you after refusing to follow orders: to stick by my own play even when it was the wrong one.”

Leliana followed her with her gaze, chin against her own shoulder and face half-covered by her hood. The sparse daylight in the Raven’s nest made her look like an exacting phantom with her body language, and when Olivia turned back to face her it made her heart timid in its beat. After all that time the right angle and the right eyes still took her bated breath away, more-so when they belonged to people whose opinions mattered more to her than any textbook or scroll.

“Is this your way of crediting me with your misguidance?” Leliana skeptically rebuffed, tightening her crossed arms against her chest.

Olivia chuckled. “No, not unless you’d want it.” Her attempt to break the tension was met with a less-than-cooperative frown from the Spymaster, and her own grin disappeared. “I just...what I am trying to say is, is that I am doing my best to have my own voice. To make my decisions and own them; but your perspective is one I hold in the highest regard. It was never my intention to cross you, nor was it to hurt you. Work or no work, I consider you a friend, and mentor. I am sorry if my growing pains come with a clumsiness I cannot always control.”

Leliana broke their eye contact, turning back to face the window ahead of her. No word, no nod, no slight change in attitude. No shift in the winds. A testimony on a stonewalling audience of one. Olivia didn’t have the gumption to ask what she wondered: why did it matter so much? Why did one side mission, a gamble that paid off however haphazard the process was, splinter them so deeply in Leliana’s eyes? Letting her arms fall to her sides in surrender she bit her lip. Maybe the best thing to do was to allow time and challenges to rebuild their report.

Nodding once to her back and side-stepping towards the stairs, she swallowed all hope she had of a solid resolution. Until, from behind, she heard that icey but insightful tone:

“Will you deliver as poised an apology to all your allies when they are mistaken in trusting you, Inquisitor, or have you tailored your courtesy for me alone?”

Well, wondering was done for. Blood now simmering beneath her cheeks and sweat continuing to grow on her palms, Olivia halted stiffly. 

“Why are you being so hard on me, Leliana?” She asked with a renewed urgency. Twisting her shoulders around to send a steeled gaze her way, she found it was met by an equally confident one in Leliana. 

“Will you ever let me off the hook for this?”

“That remains to be seen, if you answer the question and do so with honesty.”

“I did not know you believed it so fraught to trust me. For the leader of this cause, you think me so unreliable?” 

“I am not interrogating the Inquisitor. She is someone I believe quite capable. What I am concerned of is the woman behind the title, the one who must reconcile with her choices at the end of the day. What does her conscience say? What does her alleged faithlessness believe of what she’s done?”

The question was heavy enough to split boulders like sand gravel. So merciless, so direct, that in its utterance Olivia knew that she was going to be asked it sooner or later. Regardless of whether she took the courage to approach Sister Nightingale, the question would find its way to her, face-to-face or in her dreams. A matter of heroes and leaders that haunts across the ages. With all Leliana’s adventures and exploits, she was the perfect person to verbalize it.

“I…” Olivia’s voice cracked from the dryness on her tongue. Brow furrowed and hands clenched into rubbing fists, she stalled. “Will any answer be honest enough for you?”

“There is no such thing as ‘honest enough,’ Inquisitor. It is either honest, or it is useless.”

Olivia then looked towards the ground in front of her feet. Cut to the quick and overwrought.

“She…would say that she is tired of others treating her like a piece of meat in betwixt a tug of war. That she is scared of how tired she has become, because it has made her want to do foolish things to prove she has a mind of her own. That she is terrified she won’t be enough despite everyone’s work to stop Corypheus. She...she would...she would lament that she has tried so hard to establish herself and her plans, and so far, people have only tried to tear them apart like fantasies of a wild-eyed girl with something to prove. She would…” she would have continued if not for the hardness in her throat signaling that a threshold had been crossed. To persist with her confession would have inevitably led to her on her knees like she had darkly dreamed of doing throughout all the stress and adversity she faced.

But under no circumstances would she ever behold herself in such a way to anyone without force. And even then, it was disputable. She blinked her eyes shut hard to contain herself, her heart beat railing against her need for it to calm. Her hands went to her face, and she rubbed them up from her temples flatly into her tied-back hair. The smoothness of it between her palms and her scalp distracted her senses from the hopelessness.

Across the way, Leliana watched. Every detail, every little piece of her, an intake for the future. This was not the first time Olivia had allowed her to see this side of her -- but with all the Inquisitor stood to lose from a fallout between them, the stakes were higher than they had ever been. She heard Leliana sigh, an elusive sound coming from the woman who never gave up or conceded without a better offer waiting.

“Inquisitor,” she calmed, stepping forward with hands going behind her back. “These challenges are considerable. But you must remember the point of your placement here. You have come far, but you have found the shadow is not left behind in your journeys. If I am hard on you, it is because I wish that you would only turn and face the sun once and for all, instead of being distracted by the darkness that is inevitably tied to the light.”

One single, isolated tear fell from Olivia’s eye. The simultaneous weightlessness and overbearance of her words broke her apart: but it seemed as though in those days her splitting and smashing apart like pottery was a weekly routine. Reformed just to be destroyed over and over until the right woman was fashioned from the clay. It was in this process that her anger had grown.

Below their feet people walked, talked, and read to themselves. Out of the corner of her eye there was a glimpse of Dorian in the nook a floor down, tucked and cozy on ‘his’ chair with one of his picky selections. Somewhere below even him, Solas was at work with his own concerns. As her mind drifted in its attempt to escape, a Raven spooked, fluttering and cawing so abruptly that she flinched a step.

“I wish I cried less,” she muttered, helpless in her underlying anguish.

Leliana’s lips widened a bit. “You have much to mourn, as do we all.”

“Do I? It seems I am merely being tested and found lacking.”

“There is a courage in sorrow, Inquisitor. Courage, and recklessness.”

Olivia cradled her arms to her chest, coming closer to her Spymaster until they were only a couple steps apart. Her eyes had grown slightly blurred but she was holding her own. The thickness in her throat had plateaued.

“I will try my hardest not to override you again, Leliana. My promises from this point onward are without agenda.”

“I would imagine so, given how grave your face looked on the walk up here. Something tells me you will not want to relive it.” Leliana’s more playful, slight smile was like a monsoon across dusted ground: direly needed and exceeding expectations. Olivia smiled in return, the stressed and heated blush in her cheeks quelling. 

“I know I told Josephine to inform you of the derision regarding your policies with the Mages. Perhaps it was my soreness that motivated me to neglect the other part of that report. Despite the criticisms, Inquisitor, the Mages without rank seem to be almost joyous because of your new initiatives. There are tensions that come from long-held prejudices, but there is also growth. People teasing and laughing amongst themselves, warriors teaching hand-to-hand defense, Mages progressing construction and cooking faster than plans estimated. My people relay details like this to me more and more as the days pass. Your ambition to break barriers is coming to pass.”

Olivia was almost speechless. Having only one pair of eyes and ears respectively she could not ever hope to witness all the consequences of her new rules. In that, she was reminded of Leliana’s most paramount purpose: to be the senses in any and all spaces she could never hope to be. Laughing softly in shock, she shook her head.

“I…I don’t know what to say. It’s like Santinalia all over again, after hearing of the girls’ ordeal in training this morning.”

“Hm, indeed,” Leliana chimed, “the Inquisitor’s suitor and their former lover do not make the fairest sparring partners.” 

Olivia could hear scratching of nails on porcelain in her head in visceral dread. Lover? Suitor? Where in the world did those labels come from, and how could she erase them from time and space at the same time?

“They are anything but those things. Theia is…was, my best friend. Veronica too. They had a ridiculous dynamic for years, but it never ensnared me. Much to their…dismay,” Olivia huffed, head shaking.

“Oh? Well, I have only the reports from Cullen and Cassandra as to what instigated the dispute. Seems to me they had a great deal of unsettled animosity surrounding you.” 

“Hah, well, that would be true. But it will be rectified, I assure you.” 

“Of course. That, I agree, should remain under your control,” Leliana agreed, nodding once as she shifted to the side. 

Olivia could only imagine the horrible sight: her friends, the women she lauded and remembered fondly, making fools of themselves in front of her allies. Her sage, experienced, elite allies. Their disapproving stares as Theia and Veronica wrestled like unruly children who had gotten into their elders’ armory. Cullen, already impatient with their behavior, regretting the day he ever elected to call Olivia Inquisitor. And Cassandra…well, Cassandra. Words could not adequately describe the preeminent distress Olivia had at the thought of her having more reasons to estrange herself.

Before returning to her pursuit of the stairs, Olivia parted her lips, mouth moving without words as she anxiously compiled her curious question in her mind. Her hand went to her side of her neck, rubbing slowly.

“Um, just out of curiosity, who referred to them that way? As my suitors, I mean?”

Leliana cocked a brow, taking one step back. “The specificity escapes me, they both write so similarly when discussing troops.”

“Oh. Yes, I agree. Quite similar,” Olivia chuckled unevenly. A dared question with no reward, but maybe it was for the better. The last thing she needed was more worries to send her mind spinning. 

“Perhaps, given the circumstances, it was the same person who confounded me when she elected to lie for you.”

Alright, so much for the prevention of spinning.

“Ca-Cassandra? How did you—”

“Inquisitor, please,” Leliana teased, “Cassandra is good at…many things, but conspiring is not one of them. If she had been involved, I would have picked up on your plan quicker than you could recite the first verse of the Chant of Light.”

“Well, to be fair, that would be particularly slow for me,” Olivia shrugged, a bit of rigidity in her attempt to look casual. “If you knew she lied, why did you act like she hadn’t?”

“Because I did not wish to compound the issue. I had enough to accuse you of irresponsibility with your alliances without invoking the unspoken affinity you two have for each other as evidence.”

“Oh, well,” Olivia choked as if she had been socked in the gut, “thank you for your delicacy, Leliana, my intact nerves are in your debt.” 

Leliana grinned crookedly. “Do you admit it, then?”

“Admit what?”

Rather than spell it out again, Leliana gave one of her knowing stares. In her acuity, the words rehashed themselves in Olivia’s mind’s eye. Affinity, affection, unspoken understanding, unwise loyalty…there were many possible euphemisms. All of them, without question, filled Olivia with the need to hop over the rail to escape. She could only hope for the best from the fall.

“Cassandra and I…we have no such thing,” she refused, “at most, we are friends who spent a great deal aggravated with one another for the term.”

“Ah, I see.” Leliana’s simple response was laden with subtext. You’re full of it, and you’re cute so you think you get away with it.

“I! Agh,” Olivia sighed, exasperated, “what do you want me to say?” 

“Something honest, like I have said before. You are good at it when you put your mind to it.”

“I’m afraid I only have time to be brutally honest for ten minutes each day. The rest I must commit myself to indiscriminate lying and gossip,” Olivia evaded, waving a hand at her side and turning for the stairs.

Leliana chuckled. “So, does that mean that your denial is duplicitous?” 

Tripping on purpose with two steps between her and the stairs, Olivia laughed a bit and put her hand on the archway. Hunching over as if she had just been nudged in her sorry ribs, she lamented at the lack of let-up Leliana had once she had her nose on something.

“Leliana, you are a woman known for working on little in order to produce a lot, but there is nothing to sniff out between Cassandra and I. We…she doesn’t even like women that way. How did you…”

“Inquisitor, with all due respect, I don’t think even you believe the alibi you are trying to string together.” 

Olivia coughed a bit in exasperation, turning around and keeping her grip on the wall. “What makes you say that?”

“Because in your eyes I can see the way she looked at the manor in Monstimmard, before Adamant. The look that told you that she could, in fact, like women that way.”

Obvious to everyone but herself, the fire in Olivia’s eyes were blowing smoke into the situation. Beyond her control and her desire to get away, they flickered and flared with hopes long suppressed. She looked to the side, teeth gnawing at the inside of her cheek. Locking her gaze on the cages swaying gently in the breeze that cut through the windows, she tried to fight it.

“You had your…your people watch us…?” 

“It was not my direct order. Something tells me they even have a need for romantic diversion from time to time.”

“Well, why not invite them into my chambers then to watch my exploits more…oh, come on, Leliana!” Sister Nightingale’s evolving expression during Olivia’s ranting clarified just how deep the trail had gone into her personal affairs. Maybe she was a fool for underestimating the limbs of Leliana’s knowledge all the while depending on its efficacy: after all, she knew long before Olivia cared to divulge about Odessa being in the picture.

“Inquisitor, it is for your protection. You did not know any better until now, no?”

“That isn’t the point. The point is that you have fixated on what was a misunderstanding and…and I am going to walk down these stairs for good now, and we can pretend this part of the conversation never happened. Or, I can.” Waving her hand in the air dismissively, she rolled against the archway until she could descend the first few steps. There was so much she could have gone off about: how it was preposterous to think Cassandra of all people harbored love for her. Love? How could it be when she wouldn’t dare speak to her on her own, or act like she used to and be a friendly human being. Olivia knew nothing of love, but she knew people like Cassandra: their fancying of tradition and chivalry, the decadence of it all. People like her preferred the ideal and making their intended feel like a pariah was not a part of that. But to rant like that would surely give Leliana a field day.

“Good day, Inquisitor,” the Spymaster gave in, “happy lying.” 

The escape was finally managed, the final comment only hastened the pace down the stairs. The Inquisitor had never looked so uncomfortable in the library before. Her energy caused all the people on the level – mostly Mages – to turn and see for themselves. Groaning under her breath as she put on her bravest face for her audience, she walked for the next flight of stairs that would carry her feet down onto solid ground again. Her consternation only fluxed when she neared Dorian’s nook where he was last seen. The image of a hare hopping into a trap came to mind.

“You know, I reckon it is a sorry business to have a cat get hold of your tongue. But a raven? Now, that sounds sorrier than sorry. Tragically regretful, one might wager.” 

Olivia skidded to a halt, forearms and shoulders stiffening like a washboard. Growling and rolling her eyes closed, composure was in short supply.

“Dorian…”

“Don’t mind me, friend,” he said rather jovially, ankle resting across his knee as he swayed side-to-side a bit in his chair. Giddy and opportunistic as always to push the point home.

“Don’t mind you? My first breath in the morning is minding you,” Olivia hissed back in a venomous rebuttal. 

“Then it is no wonder you wheeze so much. I was simply remarking on the events of this book chapter I am on. A terrible mishap with woodland fauna.” 

“Oh? Really?” Olivia seemed to fly towards him, slapping her hand down on the middle of the page. She slanted the book so she could scan it upside down. “Huh, Imperium historicisms of the arcane. I wonder who obliged having such texts shipped at your request while you tossed other books off the rail? Could not have been me, the woman you tease so relentlessly.”

Dorian held the book closer to his face after Olivia took her hand away. “My, my, someone is in the mood for celebrating bureaucracy. How un-revolutionary of you.”

Beyond salvation of her good graces Olivia’s shoulders fell back onto the shelf wall. Sending her fingers into her hair and getting them tangled in her ponytail, she slid down onto the ground, her knees bent tightly against her chest as she collapsed onto herself.

“Sod it all,” she growled, planting her forehead against the edge of her knee. “I should just tie my smallclothes into a knot and cloister myself.”

“Even in these dire times, my friend, I imagine those matrons have some standards.”

Voice muffled against her thigh, Olivia took on the continued roasting. “No, they’ll happily allow me to save the world, though.”

“I am delighted you are smart enough to read your own job description,” he toyed further. At the end of his response there was a wistful sound of a page turning.

“Can I hide here? For just…just a few minutes?” she asked as she rubbed her eyebrow against the taut fabric of her breeches. “I need to convince myself that not everyone is simply looking at me wondering who I’ve got reaching down my pants at the end of the night.”

“You may, provided you swear upon your life that you never utter that same sequence of words again in my presence.” Dorian’s brow lifted a bit as he skimmed his book, nose upturned. His snobbish façade was all-too-familiar territory for the Inquisitor. More often than not, their consensual socialization was grounded on two rules: first, Dorian kept the insulting comparisons to animals and small children to a minimum. Secondly, Olivia didn’t discuss a single detail of her love life.

His prohibition was her saving grace. Some treaties between allies were more useful than others.

“…Thank you, Dorian,” Olivia softened, raising her eyes out of her lap and tilting her chin against her knee. 

While her mind drifted to parts unknown, Dorian gave a shallow nod, hand going to his thigh. Trying to capture the last sentence he was on before she distracted him with sincere gratitude, his brow lowered a bit.

“You’re welcome, Inquisitor.”

Differences cast aside, her eyes wandered to the window beside his chair. The sky looked greyer than it did in the morning. A winter storm was making its way to them, making the relief of the sunny morning fragile in hindsight. Soon, the winds would pick up and the chill would grow unsavory. Having found a place to hide from and weather it, the impending mayhem bothered her little. After all, there were worse places to be when caught by a storm – on the coast trailing behind a stubborn Seeker to find charted campsites, for example. Or if you were particularly masochistic: underneath a tent near the fallen Warden fortress, the thunder quaking your chest causing you to stare off into space with instinctive fear. That is, until that same Seeker spotted you and distracted you by making fun of the ink you got on your face, making your world seem less scary in front of your own nose.

Everything always came back to her, just enough to slip through Olivia’s fingers again when she refused to dare enough to hold on.


	58. What Dreams Deliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two weeks after the return from Adamant through Cassandra's perspective. She struggles with feelings and dreams both potentially disturbing. New challenges and additions to the Inquisition ranks test her devotion to rules and precedent.

The argument with Leliana would have been enough. If the ordeal had ended there, she would have found a logical way to justify coming to the Inquisitor with a confession: something honest, but responsible. The world depended on them staying the course for their goal. Olivia deserved the truth but they deserved higher standards for themselves than to give into indulgent fantasies of what could be.

Sleep did not agree with her that night.

Rather than the barraged senses of colors, echoes, and sensations her dreams usually harbored, she instead found herself in a blackened, cavernous spanse. She could not even see the floor which she stood and walked upon, as if she traversed transparent glass rather than stone or soil. But Cassandra was as capable a dreamer as she was a warrior: years of disciplined faith and mind had withstood era and era of duress that unfolded before her. If all else failed she would pray and awaken in the morning none the worse for wear. It was one of the bittersweet gifts of being trained as a servant of the faith first and foremost before a masterful fighter.

However, the episode would not simply be a journey in the dark. Out of thin air fire ignited so bright she had to turn away from its overwhelming light. Stretching up a pillar invisible without its shape, it grew and diverged into two paths forming a circle. Rather than recombine, they stopped short of each other’s path. She had seen such a shape before, on the banners and regalia of the Circles of Magi.

It ebbed tall and mighty with flame. Something between voice and visceral emotion flooded Cassandra’s mind. Dread, the kind that came from the inability to reverse choice.

Words communicated but as thoughts rather than from the mouth of another: _She is the second break in the Circle._

The Circle split down the bottom half. Embers cracked and hissed as the two halves of the Circle pulled apart and went out in a plume of windless smoke. In its shadow another spark grew in its place, and then another beside it. Two columns of fire that spread and grew limbs until their shapes were all-too-familiar: one, the Templar sword, and the other the Seeker’s eye. Their colors varied from each other, the Templar’s blood red banner color reflecting in its burning while the Seeker symbol burned darker, almost grey. Pristine like torches and yet vulnerable.

They fell apart as the first symbol did: breaking, splitting, and burning out into obscurity. The light in the dark for so many a person. The long-decaying pillars the faith stood on.

_She will smelt the blades held backhanded,_

_Her body a shield for no man’s authority._

Rather than going out completely the fires burst free from their shapes, reducing in size until they combined into one force. Replenishing itself, the fire grew again. Limited, but persistent. Cassandra had lost awareness of her body and movements. The dream had reduced to sight and emotion alone for her mind to experience with an inability to fight back like she always did. These visions were inescapable, unfightable. However, one tracking theme resounded: the Orders of the Nevarran Accord one-by-one had been lit, all except for one.

And that one grew to life in a fire most holy and golden, in the outstretched rays of the Chantry symbol. Only when it manifested did the heat of it all become real, so overbearing that her face became cold with the growing perspiration. It burned, and burned, and burned, almighty unlike the others. A rhythm of gusts and currents railed against it, but it prevailed after each attempt to blow it out like a candle quick.

Maybe it would prevail. Maybe the broken could still endure. Or, maybe it was because Cassandra was praying to herself that it would. She knew the nature of fire: engulfing and engrossing until there was nothing left to strip away. Scripture and science coalesced on that fact.

Her heart sank when the futile result unfolded. Beneath the currents of red the symbol splintered like firewood. Its writhing and hissing disturbed her.

_Her pyre is to be built upon cleansing fire,_

_Tall on the ash of the Orders, she will rise._

_Even the sky knows her shadow,_

_For she will be the new siren Sun._

Snapped and writhing, the Chantry’s heraldry collapsed on itself. Falling away, its pieces became one with the endless black, like ghosts seeping into walls. Transforming into nothingness until all that was left was a wandering, opaque oblivion. No heat, no smell, no touch. Suspension. And then, out of nowhere, eyes. Flashed open, the gold and orange fluctuating in their colors. Eyes seen before and ever-changing. Cassandra knew them. Cassandra had loved them.

She awoke in a fit of salted sweat underneath her blankets. Her tunic shirt clung to her collarbones and shoulders. Gasping for air as if she hadn’t inhaled since falling into slumber, she clung her hand to her stomach. The night was still upon the land and her room was as still as she had left it. Armor sprawled cleanly on the table and rack, trunks closed, bed linens neatly draped over her straightened body. No hint of disturbance except that which had consumed her mind.

Seekers did not fall prey to prophetic mania. She had done something wrong to encourage such vivid tumult in her own self. And perhaps that only compounded the fear she had that the words she heard were real, if only subconsciously. Measures had to be taken.

\--

She spent the morning before training at the shrine in the gardens, making peace and pushing away the dream as far as she could from the forefront of her mind. All logic told her it was a complex nightmare, nothing more, nothing less. Adamant had been a horrific ordeal to experience and witness, and the stress of war impressed upon them all. It was what she deserved after letting her impulsive daydreams rule her mind while she serviced her role to the cause. It was for the best to reconvene her commitment to work anyways; Skyhold was not the front lines. She could not justify being stuck to the Inquisitor’s side in the same ways she could then, when she needed someone there to be at her side while she recovered. She was not there to be a companion. She was there to fulfill that which was necessary.

All of that came apart like hastily sewn burlap as soon as she saw her. She, who was draped in burgundy, wreath atop her head.

Through the fray of happier people, people who could laugh and be merry, there she was. It had only been days and the absence of her voice, her ridiculous commentary on the goings-on before them, was missed. It was deplorable that the last time she heard it it was in a nightmare, and she was a toxic sorceress talking of murder as if it were a chore. Ugh, the coat Leliana and Josephine had tailored for her itched at the collar. A charcoal grey and black-lined military coat, a compromise between formality and practicality for the Seeker known to always have the world and her skin divided by some form of metal. Santinalia was the worst setting for rekindling hope in a friend’s goodness on behalf of a torrid dream. She didn’t even have one of those corny, wrapped gifts to offer. Orlesians loved that kind of fare, maybe it would soften the blow when she asked her off-handedly if she wasn’t some secret...oh, blast it.

She had made her way halfway through the crowd to her, bent on breaking the tortured precedent. She was going to remind herself that she was a person, she was real, and not insane. She would approach her and she would laugh, tease her about something relentlessly, and Cassandra would know. She would know that she was not the stuff of nightmares, and all would be well. But, then, the stopped herself: seeing Olivia move on a mission towards someone else. Towards Sera. The way she nudged her and started talking.

Cassandra stopped and backed up towards a half-empty table, sliding behind the outlandishly tall floral arrangement. This whole situation had reduced her to a timid wallflower in an irritating fancy coat. All the while Olivia was fine -- why wouldn’t she be? She was back at Skyhold, functioning as leader and mingling like she should. Why did she need to perform a certain kind of way? Why was proof needed?

A half hour passed. She had seen through her peripheral glances that Olivia had remained mingling on the edges of the crowd. She, herself couldn’t stomach as much. The idea of having to endure more teasing from Leliana, drunken jest from Dorian, or insufferable storytelling from Varric was a step too far for her. She came to one of the large log beams that had been installed to ground the string lights, chalice in hand as she leaned against it with her shoulder. Her absent-minded staring circulated the dance floor. So many happy couples for it being a fortress of the faithful serving a cause to stop the end of days. Handholding, heads resting on shoulders. On the other side of the open space she spotted Sera chuckling next to Dagna, the faintest look of blush in her cheeks.

“They have asked much of you but they don’t know how much. One day it’ll be too late to give back. Your arms will be too weak to hold it all, no space, no shelves, no cabinets to store it. Too much and never eno--’

“Cole,” Cassandra sighed as she eyed the contents of her cup, “weren’t you talking with the Inquisitor?”

“I was. She left. Noises got too big.”

“Noises? What do you mean noises?” she glanced to her left to see him standing there, his odd hat making it impossible to see his sullen face.

“Too big. Too nosy for one face.”

“Ugh, Maker.” Conversations with Cole had not improved or gotten any clearer in dialect since he first appeared. The Inquisitor had insisted on him staying and being acclimated to the group like any other ally even with the knowledge of his abilities and “quirks.” It made no sense to have such a susceptibility to close to the center of it all, but he had yet to prove dangerous. When Cassandra had made it clear to him that she would not hesitate to do what needed to be done in the event he turned dangerous, he had only agreed. As if discussing his own demise was business. What did his kind know of business?

“Porcelain and charcoal. Golden and gaunt. She endures without prayer between her teeth while yours have bitten down. Something, anything, make her bend to one knee. Make her see. Maker, make her.”

Her hands grew colder along with her cheeks. The music went from vaguely tolerable to gradingly out of place for her mood. Cole once again was trespassing unto where he was not invited, bringing to bare truth that was too cryptic to confront, yet too poignant to ignore.

“I did not ask you for your opinion,” she managed to refute, fingers gripping tighter on the cup she held in her hand. The reflected light on the wine surface shook and spun.

“Yours are the fears of all. Everyone wants her on their side, to face their shadows with them, but she keeps chasing the sun, sliding between alleyways, climbing to rooftops. You want to know what she finds.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Somewhat.”

“Cole, stop.”

“Is it so bad if she is the monster that everyone sees? Both the lullaby and night terror. Singing, siren’s call, slumber and slippers doused in blood. An unloved daughter will mother the mayhem.”

Too much. Too poetic. The coat, the annoying happiness, the nightmare, and now another oracle-like message. Only this time she could not wake up from it. She had to get out of there, out of the ridiculous party and kept to herself where she could do no harm and incur no more reason to be angry.

“Excuse me,” she said as she stomped past him on the way to the first place of refuge she could find. The forge, of course. She abandoned her cup on the nearest flat surface on the way. She would be released from the affair of the night for good. Only, not good, because of course -- Maker, of course -- who else would be coming out the door she sought to enter but the woman of the hour herself. Wreath, gown, unassuming smile and all.

Thought it was not the way she initially engineered, Cassandra got the proof she wanted. Olivia was calm, personable, good-humored despite the slight melancholic nature of her attitude. In the face of Cassandra’s nervous behavior she only sought to comfort and disarm her. It was too good for a woman who held the fate of the world in her hands.

“Why are you looking away like that? Am I too Orlesian in aesthetic for you?”

“Agh, no! Not at all...”

“Then what is the matter? I had hoped to bully you into a dance!”

Her kindness was overwhelming. “You…? Agh, I…I am not one for conversation…or dancing. Forgive me, I must go.”

Cassandra rejected and brushed her off, two talents she was unquestionably proficient at. Moving past her for refuge inside where she would be out of sight and out of mind -- or at least, she thought she would be -- Olivia’s expression falling from sweet to disappointed stuck. It stuck through her realization that Cullen was there, and he only offered a nod and a grin as she rushed up the stairs into the loft. It stuck with her when she sat at the table and put her head in her hands, rubbing against her hair to shake the emotions she was running from. It stuck like everything Olivia did: for better or worse, humor or annoyance. Anger or glee.

After a while of convincing herself to get it together, she looked out one of the windows only once. The dancing and music were both full throttle, as they would be until the wee hours of the morning. She looked on as Olivia energetically endured three consecutive rounds of dancing, all of which she was paired with men who hung on her smile and every word. And oh, did she deliver on that: smiling and giggling as they spun, lifted, and whirled her around the floor. People marveled at her with affection and wonder as if she were made of spun gold. Cassandra had lost grip on the possibilities of being a woman like that another lifetime ago, disdainful towards the expectations enforced on giggling girls and the women they grew into. When watching Olivia do it though, after all she had been put through, a new kind of respect built itself within her. The last thing women like her needed was a one who could not be mentioned in simple conversation without also discussing her harsh stoicism.

Or did they?

\--

_Several Days After Santinalia, the night of the rescue --_

A late night at the forge compounded by her reading a spare chapter from Swords & Shields kept her out of her chambers way past a reasonable hour, long enough for her vigilant eyes to spot the wandering figure in the dark outside. Cloaked and careful, they climbed onto the shingles of the tavern and tapped on a window. Sera’s window. This was no common thief or interloper -- this was someone who knew what they were after. At first, Cassandra fought the suspicion begrudgingly: maybe one of Sera’s ‘connections’ had stowed away into the fortress to deliver or receive information. It wasn’t until the they had climbed out the window and down to the ground that the sheen of a custom-crafted dagger blade attached at the hip indicated just who had come calling.

Why the Inquisitor would elect to sneak out like some teenager in the middle of the night and invite Sera along on top of it? Simple: she trusted her not only as an ally, but co-conspirator. They were insufferable out in the wilderness during the travels, joking and competing for who could do whatever feat the other challenged. Cassandra may have gotten flack from the Advisors for following after the Inquisitor like a shadow, but it was Sera who did so with utmost complicity rather than the Seeker’s accountability. Flashbacks to the night in the Mire tavern flooded her mind as she stood back from the window.

The Inquisitor was doing something she was not supposed to be doing, and she was bringing along the one person she knew who would back her up in something foolish.

Cassandra struggled on whether to intervene. By her standards of ‘struggle,’ though, that meant overthinking the consequences while riding full-steam-ahead to direct action. Above all else, she was there to serve and act as one should. An hour after she and Sera left through the corner gate, Cassandra had rushed back to her quarters to armor up. Once ready she would go knock on Cullen’s office, convince his less-than-enthused and sleep-deprived ass to come along. The Inquisitor was not the only one who had people in her periphery for when she needed support.

Cullen proved unamused in mind but cooperative in action. They packed up as discreetly as they could manage. Somehow, they didn’t disturb the Warden put up in the barn attic or Master Dennet in his barracks nearby, even though Cullen slammed doors twice without thinking and she herself dropped her bridle while untangling it. Once on the other side of the fortress walls, they rode out unto the trail, tracking the fresh tracks of hooves and small feet in the muddy snow. The first hour was quiet and uneventful, and no signs of fighting or violence appeared before them. The farther they went, the more relieving it was that the two women in front of them had faced no danger as far as they had followed.

There was limited room for talk once they pulled their horses down from the canter they had sustained for the first third of the journey. But, it looked as though Cullen was going to make the most of it in exchange for his willingness to tear himself from the office.

“There was a time when I would have bet two month’s salary you’d uncover her antics and say ‘I told you so,’” Cullen remarked out of the blue as they egged their horses onward at an energetic walk. He had made similar observations at Adamant when even he noticed how closely they worked together for people who used to glare at each other by default.

Her hands rubbed on the rein leather. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“Pff, can you imagine if I dared to hold her accountable? Maker, they have just finished restoring my quarters.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes. “Very funny. We both know she is accountable whether she chooses to be or not. That is the reality of her role.”

Cullen’s horse shook its mane, huffing steam into the chilly air. “You know they won’t be pleased with her. That’s if whatever she’s gone after is something she can come back from.”

“Are you going to persist with stubborn skepticism, or are you going to admit that you have just as much investment in her wellbeing as the rest of us?”

Cullen arched a brow and turned his attention to the road. Rarely did Cassandra mince words, and he of all people had been conditioned to it comfortably. Conversation was not necessary for the task at hand even if they had one of the more congenial working relationships in Skyhold. Both logical, both faithful, both concise. Yet the challenges that every day brought tested them both, and Cassandra’s choice on how to cope was becoming more and more apparent. They were not the people they were when the Inquisition was a mere whisper between anxious voices.

“I remember a time when Leliana asked the same of you, Cassandra. Even you have to admit it’s all a bit much to swallow. Don’t you ever feel backed against the fire?”

His wording surged butterflies in her gut, and not the romantic kind. “What do you mean?”

“She is capable, no one can doubt that. But she is also irreverent. How do you make sense of her and her resentment?”

“Is it so strange that a Mage would harbor resentment?”

He shook his head once, resting his palms atop each other on his saddle horn. Another dead end rather than concession. “Of course not. But the Templars aren’t the only ones she looks down on.”

There was truth in his words. Her list of enemies was ambitious. Templars, the Chantry, and yes, even the Seekers. Though little remained of the Seekers to target with her malice. That fact had weighed on Cassandra’s shoulders for months ever since their encounter with Lord Seeker Lucius at the Capitol. Duties in front of her face had compelled her to shelve her anxieties, but they did not diminish in their purgatorial state.

“What is your point?” Cassandra continued to dodge, but her question was affirmation enough of Cullen’s assertion.

He watched her as she tilted her chin slightly his way, acknowledgingly him indirectly. A rare attitude for the Seeker who took all challenges head-on.

“Agh. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so hard on her,” Cullen unexpectedly pulled back after a moment of quiet. “The future is not a promise we can lean on.”

He was right to scale back. The Inquisitor had done much to oppositionalize many groups of people, but she was earnest. She also honored her alliances whenever she could. Even he had to admit it; Cassandra had seen some of the efforts the Inquisitor had been making to make solid connections with him even after the months of fighting that had transpired. She was who she was, but she was changing. Changing and trying. But was it right to hope for that?

On the horizon about a half-mile down, a sudden light glowed. No star would touch the land so closely, and no villages were mapped in the region. Yet there it was, glimmering like a lit beacon. They pulled their horses to a stop.

“Maker,” Cullen exhaled, “what is that?”

“The distance between us and them...could we have caught up so fast?”

“If they stopped.”

They exchanged a look. Even though she had no idea what to expect from following their trail, there was an anxious feeling one got when things were easier than expected. In his face, he mirrored her subliminal worry.

She tightened her reins and adjusted her fit in her saddle. “Let us hurry, then.”

Another half mile down they ran into horses tied to a tree. The chestnut mare that Olivia rode and trusted, gnawing on a broken branch almost as tough as her attitude under saddle. Cullen made short work of what was needed, dismounting and pulling one of the horses to Cassandra to pony alongside while he took the other. If a quick escape was needed, they would bring all the mounts possible.

It was after that they found the rundown cottage where the Inquisitor, her friends, and Sera had coalesced. There, they broke down the door and found them alone, frazzled but safe. As she stood at the ready behind Cullen it was all about the demands at hand: rescue their allies, ensure the Inquisitor’s safety. She clung to that insurgence of adrenaline throughout it all, and it was its power that possessed her to approach Olivia when the dust had settled. The rush and the relief that she was alright provoked boldness.

“…Olivia.”

She didn’t mean to be so careless. She didn’t go out that night believing that was how she would track her down. But with the Inquisitor standing there, tall and not impressed with her olive branch, what else was she to do? Her name was a lifeline as much as it was fraught. And when she stopped her flurry of distraction to stare back at her, in a strange taste of irony she got what she wanted: her attention, however caustic, had been caught. And those eyes, the stuff of nightmares that she wanted to apologize for. They were paired with lips that gave such a slight, concealed quiver that if she weren’t taking in every inch of her like air she would have missed it. But it was there, and she was there. And she was nothing like the terrible poetics.

A promise was a promise. Cassandra remembered in that instant just what had led her so astray in the narrow and manicured path she had always walked. Death, after all, never has to ask for loyalty.

\--

_One week later --_

After she got away with calling the Inquisitor by name without getting her hair burned off, Cassandra did not dare impose further with her own desires. Removing herself from the Inquisitor’s inner circle of consequence, she pressed onward. Besides, she now had her friends returned to her. The same friends she had pined for and talked about with such light and exuberance in her. The same ones who had to answer for why she ended up forsaken at the Conclave so foolishly. It made sense that she would want to seclude herself and make sense of it all. She would have to conserve her energies, as they all did.

Meanwhile, Cullen’s questioning hung back in her mind like a stalking predator amidst a tree line, snarling intensifying when later that week she received a side report from Leliana confirming her ongoing concerns. No Seekers seen or trackable since Lucius’s tirade in Val Royeaux; not even with months long gone since. Even if she had strayed from the Order she could not pretend they never existed and allow the fates that be to send them down a similar road as the Templars had. Seekers did not turn away from foreboding mystery. It was their trade, their training, to step into the shadows and usher the Maker’s light unto the truth. Even if it had to be in their own reflection.

When she found her mind spinning with indecision, training always provided the surefire outlet. That was until two new recruits showed up with a handwritten order from none other than the Inquisitor herself -- then, the headache persisted. Their faces were cleaner and less dire than the first time she had met them. Two more Ostwick Magi, ready for duty. Veronica’s name and indeed, her presence was harder to swallow given the history. But if the Inquisitor had dealt with it, it wasn’t Cassandra’s place to intervene and cause more trouble on her behalf.

It was a cold morning. Both of their mouths breathed hot air, lips shivering. They were not done adjusting to the weather even after a week. Wasn’t one of them supposed to be Fereldan? And didn’t they survive months in the wilderness with little more than the clothes on their backs and menial weaponry? That would impress some form of skill to fight and endure harsh conditions.

“Are you consenting to this responsibility?” She asked them both as they stood at the foot of the stairs Behind her, dozens of training personnel clashed swords and were midway through drills, the Commander on the other side of the grounds overseeing them while fielding morning reports. The place was a tightly-run ship, and they would have to understand.

The white-haired one looked to the side while the other chewed on her lip. They looked like reprimanded thieves having to accept their due reward for their bad behavior. It was rather pathetic, really. Dressed and ready on the outside, but all show and no tenacity.

“We don’t really have room for opinions,” the woman called Theia finally spat out. “It is our privilege to be able to service the Inquisitor, our friend.”

The other shot a glare at her friend. They obviously were not of the same mind. But military training wasn’t the place for opinions or semantics. They would learn, and they would get with the program, like all the other Mages.

Sweet Maker, whatever it takes to get them in line and I can pretend they don’t exist.

She sent them to Cullen, who then pointed them to the area of the grounds where the rest of the new Mage recruits could practice hand-to-hand combat skills with oversight being the operative word used to describe its purpose. The Inquisitor’s new programs were a rough adjustment, but not entirely hopeless. She trusted her people to deal with it, and Cassandra could respect that perspective.

Clearly, her friends did not embrace the same doctrine. A half hour after they reported to her, there was commotion coming from the far side of the field. People stopped practicing and instead ran and formed a circle. The women had dropped decorum and honor in favor of cheap punches and spat insults. When Cassandra shoved and pushed her way through the border of people cheering and crying out, Veronica was sat squarely on Theia’s back, pressing her face down flat into the dirt. She was pulling her hair, of all things, like a caddy noblewoman with too much wine in her veins. All the while there was hapless cursing and a slew of insults from either side.

Cullen appeared soon after, barking orders and grabbing the one on top with his own two hands. She shook him off and stood back, teeth bared like a cornered dog. Theia took a moment to decompress, but with Cassandra arriving to stand over her it was as if she was too afraid to stay down and look weaker than she already did.

Rising to her feet, she wiped her mouth with her wrist and turned towards her friend-turned-adversary with seething purple eyes. Because of course she had ‘special’ eyes. Mages.

“You will always be a jealous, crude woman!” Theia hurled.

“And you will always follow the trail of pity wherever it leads!” Veronica spat back, weaving on either side of Cullen as he faced her head on in an attempt to subdue her.

Cassandra grabbed Theia by the arm and pulled her back towards the edge of the circle. Enough was enough.

“Go to the healer’s tents. Now!” she growled, shoving her off. Bloody lip and bruised ego were pitiful injuries to withdraw for, but it looked for the best. Cullen was less successful, as Veronica once more sidewined and ran off towards the Mage’s barracks. All around them, shocked and intimidated troops looked from side to side, sizing each other up as if desiring to know who else would dare be so insubordinate.

Cullen turned around, rubbing the back of his neck. He was angry, fed up before breakfast.

“Is she serious? They aren’t fit for combat!” he grumbled aloud at her.

Cassandra looked around at all the faces for a moment longer before honing on his question. “Enough, already. Maker, just get the group back in line. I’ll be back.”

He looked at her as if she had cracked, too. Maybe she did. But something in her gut said follow where the impetuous tracks led once again. Perhaps one day she would have to do more in her day besides run after spirited Mages with reckless ideas in her head. But that was not the day to start.

The Mage quarters were still a bit uncharted to her, though it didn’t take long to follow the sound of rustling and muttering down the rows of beds and tables. Everyone else had risen and gotten on with their day. Row after row, the commotion drew nearer, until she had found her. The brunette with a bad attitude and worse vocabulary from all reports and encounters. But most of all, she was the one who had betrayed Olivia when she needed her most all those months ago. The betrayal that would define her future.

Cassandra came around the side of her bunk. She had been given the bed in the corner. A small table rest beside her pillow, and she had a bag on it open and overflowing with things. Veronica herself was stuffing what looked to be paper in a large leather booklet, sewn crudely at the spine and bent.

“What are you doing?” Cassandra asked, a bit tired already from the answer.

Veronica flinched and squealed, falling back against the cobblestone wall. The book slipped out of her hands and fell to the floor, splattering pages all over the place. Their eyes met, and Veronica’s red and purple cheek and scraped-up brow exposed themselves in the window light.

“I…” Veronica replied, hands jerking up and down as she fought herself on whether or not to clean up the mess. “I was just…”

“You were going to run.”

“...No! I was...”

Cassandra stepped forward, toe landing atop one of the pages.

“No! Stop! Don’t step on that!”

It wasn’t often someone commanded her to watch herself. This felt less like an authority and more like a request for mercy. Veronica then gave in and crouched to her knees, rushing to pick up every last one as if they were worth more than her own life. Rather than stand over her and feel useless, Cassandra sighed, rolled her eyes, and reached down along with her.

They stopped and stared at each other once the Seeker had come down to eye level. At first there was defensiveness in Veronica’s face, and then, futile surrender. Picking up the first few, the faint grey and black marks piqued curiosity. Sketches and drawings filled the pages. Figures and faces, a bit rough but not entirely untalented.

“I didn’t ask for you to look at them,” Veronica sassed as she kept wrangling them. Her comment brought Cassandra back to the present, and she realized she had stopped to stare at them rather than help. Pivoting her boot heel, she stood up tall and held onto the same several ones she had latched onto.

Veronica sighed and compiled the last remaining couple, shoving them into a uniform stack for the book.

“What, you’ve never seen a sketch before?” she continued to interrogate, standing up and tossing the book onto the cot. Folding her arms, she kept her chin tucked, once again a scolded child.

Cassandra couldn’t stop looking at one in particular. “Is...is this…”

“They are my friends, yes. What of it?” Veronica yanked one of them from Cassandra’s hands, the paper nearly ripping between their two confident grips. Luckily for Cassandra it was not the one she had fixated on: two women sitting beside each other. One was taller, face narrower than the other. Her hair was in a tousled braid over her shoulder and she wore a confident frown. It was the other, though, that smiled. Smiling with a rounded face and brighter eyes. Her hair was down and messy, neither curly or straight. They were shoulder-to-shoulder. Even in the crudeness of it, there was a profoundness that struck even the Seeker’s distracted heart.

“What, you got a crush?” Veronica asked again, more exasperated. “What do you want?”

“I...I was…” there was no way to walk back gawking. Instead of explain, Cassandra blinked, shaking her head as she handed the pages back to her. Veronica took them with the same contempted vigor she did the first as if her undergarments had been stolen and not her artwork.

“That was her. I know you wanted to ask. I’m not stupid,” she said as she grabbed the book.

“She did not say anything of your…”

“My what? Oh, my little hobby? Why do you think I had her run back into the forsaken shack we were stuck in for my bag, so I could feel like a cared for damsel? Piss it,” she huffed as she opened the book and went through the sections. “They’re all disorganized now. Years worth, all messed up.”

There was nothing proper to say to such an discovery. The very fact that it elicited any reaction at all was a feat. Veronica stepped away towards her bag on the table. The stakes were centered again: if she was about to run, if she was to break from it all, what then?

“We were all so close once. I know it looks like we don’t know water from snot, but…” she stuttered, back to the Seeker and hunched a bit in defeat. “Wait, I can...I can show you.” She set down the book and started rifling through it. A woman on a mission, eager to provide proof to her claims. Cassandra could admire such a priority, and it was probably due to that that she stood by rather than dismiss herself. Ten minutes prior she never would have humored the idea of going after the person who scorned the Inquisitor as if she were a friend to comfort. Whatever it was that was in the fortress water, she had drank too much of it.

“Here! Here,” Veronica said after a moment, pulling two papers from the stack. She whirled around and came at her, holding them out flat with either hand. “I don’t have any of me in them. I’m bad at self portraits.”

Cassandra raised a brow and looked downward at them. Two pages covered in charcoal grey markings and shading. The first was another pairing: two women, one above the other with an arm wrapped across the other’s chest and shoulders. The one who looked seated had short hair, chin-length and colored dark. The other had her chin resting atop her forehead, eyes closed and grin faint.

The second, though, the second one was devastating: a face and shoulders portrait, the same smiling woman with big eyes and straight brows. Her face round and hair tucked for once, and the smile...smiles were so rare in art. But in Veronica’s rendition it seemed so vital, so integral to the rest of the picture. Cassandra took that one into her hands and looked at it as if it were discovered scripture. Quietly heartbreaking.

“She...she was laughing at a joke I told. That is why…” Veronica didn’t need to explain. That is why she chose it. The joy in her face, evidence that there was a time when the two of them loved each other as crazed sisters. A time when Olivia looked at her and felt safe, adoring, and trusting. It pulled on Cassandra’s soul -- the consequence of over-indulgence in romantic literature, surely.

“How...long ago was this?” Cassandra finally managed to talk, her voice softened more than she liked it to be.

“That one? She was no more than twenty,” Veronica replied, folding her arms loosely. “She sat for more portraits than any of the others, after I smuggled the sketch paper from the library. She has more patience for that kind of stuff. Even when I...you know, when I messed up time and time again.”

Playfully complicit when it mattered. That would be something she’d do. But her age, her youth. A face that she never knew. It was one of those things she would have never wondered about unless something like this had happened. It was hard to imagine anyone in the Inquisition in a time before the war, let alone the woman who led it all.

“...Your name is Veronica, is it not?”

“Yes. Veronica Crespin, of Denerim.”

“Denerim?”

“Yes. Or, the Denerim orphanages. I was eight when I was sent to Ostwick. Theia arrived shortly after, three years, I would say. Then Olivia. Roslyn became one of us after that, and Naomi, too.”

Cassandra handed back the page, pursing her lips a bit as she listened. Three years of no friendship at such a young age. These women looked like children when together because they were: functioning siblings as best they could given the circumstances, having seen it all.

“We will have to report your insubordination to the Inquisitor. But I would advise against leaving.”

“I wasn’t leaving.”

“Lying is not a language I return with kindness,” Cassandra harshened, putting her hands behind her back and clasping onto her own wrist.

“I wasn’t! I...dammit, I…” Veronica held the papers to her chest beneath crossed arms. “I was going to burn every one of them with Theia in it. I was just...I wasn’t leaving.”

“That does not explain why your bag is packed.”

“I haven’t unpacked it since we left the Circle. It’s a habit. It’s always been at my hip. We never stayed anywhere long enough for it to make sense that I empty it. An Orphan knows no definite home.”

A Mage’s plight used to feel like a coin a dozen. Years of case after case of dangerous Magi and the politics of it all had jaded Cassandra so deeply. The Divine’s sympathetic policies and attempts to reach understanding between factions only did more damage in the long run to her empathy due to the politics. Perhaps it was the Maker’s providence that the Inquisitor would be an apologetic Mage with friends who were equally brazen: a way to further turn her world and her mentality upside down. But this was the first time throughout it all -- the stories, the travels, the conversations with Olivia where she divulged her past inch by inch -- that she felt sympathy come alive in her. It made absolutely no sense.

Taking a breath and pulling her shoulders further back, she kept steady. “Your punishment will be decided by the Inquisitor herself in conjunction with the Commander. Until then, you will seek care from the Healers and continue your day of work.”

Veronica watched her carefully. The woman knew when she was cornered, both literally and figuratively.

“...Thank you,” she hummed low, looking down at the ground. “I...I heard your name was Cassandra?”

Cassandra lowered her brow. “You will refer to me as Seeker Pentaghast, as you will honor every ally in the Inquisition with their proper titles. That includes the Inquisitor when she is not here to give permission for otherwise.”

Veronica’s eyes shot up, her mouth open. She was about to say something, but she got in her own way. Biting her lip, she stepped back again to set the drawings back on the table.

“Very well, Seeker Pentaghast. I promise, I’m n-not the woman that...”

“Your identity matters little. Your actions and your dedication to this cause do. Do not disappoint us again.”

Cassandra pivoted around back towards the corridor from which she came. It looked as if the conversation were done there. But she wasn’t ready to let go without one more claim. She looked over her shoulder and watched as Veronica refocused on her belongings.

“Recruit.”

Veronica flinched softly. “Yes?”

“If you so much as think of betraying or injuring the Inquisitor as a viable choice to you, I will personally make sure it is the last thing you ever do.”

The room went a somber as a grave. Forgiveness or not, the Maker did not turn away from betrayals of friendship or good faith. Neither did Cassandra. She remembered the way Olivia cried when she woke with her memories restored. The way she looked when she left her scarf at the Temple ruins. The way she sifted through letters in the field, but never finding the one she was looking for from her friends. Indeed, forgiveness was a demand of all souls.

But so was penance.

Veronica’s eyes glazed a bit. Her complexion washed out along with them. But she clenched her jaw and nodded once, only once. That was all Cassandra needed to leave. Stomping out of the barracks and into the open air of the grounds again she saw that everyone was back to routine: swords colliding, shield maneuvers choreographed in lines and pairs of people. The Commander doing his best overhead to get his mind back on the day rather than the earlier drama.

Breathing beneath her chestplate was easier, then. Resting her hand on her sword grip as she returned to where she was rightfully stationed beside the sparring troops, she could do little to cater to the confused thoughts inside her head. And that was exactly what she wanted.

That night she had another dream. There was no dark room or burning iconographies. Heat and sand between teeth, chapped lips under the desert skies. It was the Approach. She was standing in the watering hole where the group had wandered down to wash and rest. Rather than an amorphous dream it was a memory, a flashback of a time that was definitely real.

Oliv--the Inquisitor, was standing hip-deep in the middle of the water. She had stripped down to her smallclothes top and was rubbing her arms with water. Farther down the shallow canyon Blackwall was minding himself, and Cole was wherever he wanted as per usual. Cassandra had elected not to strip down and wash, having an eagerness to get on with the day. Seeing the Inquisitor’s unevenly sun-scorched skin, peeled and picked at, made her stop.

“Inquisitor!? Have you not addressed your burns with the Healers at the Keep?”

Olivia looked back at her from over her shoulder. “I’m fine, Cassandra, don’t worry.”

“Surely you are not. That cannot be healthy.”

Olivia only stepped around to look at her from the side, still washing her arms and unbothered. “And your endless fretting cannot be healthy, either, but you don’t see me bossing you to the Healer’s tent.”

“Ugh.” Cassandra let her arms fall to her sides, turning her back to her to eye down the canyon. Blackwall was cleaning his sword, sat on a boulder. Cole was nowhere to be found. One could only hope he had not abandoned them for the arms of the desert abyss. While she stared, the sounds of thighs trudging through water came closer. Then a large splash.

Whipping around she saw the Inquisitor once again having fallen down. This time, she was chest-deep in water and laughing.

“Inquisitor, are you alright?” Cassandra asked, a fatigued tone in her voice. She had asked that question too many times to do so with alarm.

Laughing and splashing as she regained her foothold in the sand, the Inquisitor pushed herself up and covered her chest with her arms. “I...I am…” she couldn’t even utter a sentence, she was giggling so much. Burned, bruised, bloodied, and broken, and she was giggling. Rocking down and up with her bunched shoulders, her cheeks became even more red.

“You are what?”

“I am fine!” she laughed, “I was going to tackle you and plunge your head underwater. I can see now I was thwarted. How can the water be this cold? Dammit...”

Unbelievable. So much danger awaited them when they were done, and she was making a fool of herself. How did she have the time for that? Or the energy, for that matter? Did she not understand what the task at hand was?

“Indeed, you were,” Cassandra sighed, stepping away from her and into shallower depths.

“Oh, come on Cassandra,” Olivia kept on as she hiked out of the water and onto the sand bar with her. “It would have been funny!”

“An interesting choice of wording.”

The Inquisitor shook off the slight insult as they went about gathering their things. While Cassandra pulled out her map from the back of her belt, Olivia elected to keep playing oasis muse by pulling her hair out. Bending over to hold her head upside down, her wet hair in darker shades of brown than they actually were. And tangled, Maker, so tangled. How she handled it was beyond her: she had happily gone years without feeling her hair go past her ears.

But Cassandra couldn’t help it. The way the Inquisitor ran her fingers through as if she were teasing a string instrument. The way her shoulders, even when they were burned and read, shined in the sunlight. The linen of her smalls clinging against her skin. The muscles of her back, toned and stiffened as she hung over. She had tried so hard to avoid being captivated like she had several times before: looking in other directions, finding materials to read, thoughts to engross herself with. Her meditative tricks were no match for Olivia’s effortless existence. Unfortunately, It was a short-lived distraction: done enough with her untangling, Olivia pulled her hair up and stood back upright. Arms above her head and hair pulled up, she looked back at her. A smile. Always a smile.

“What is the matter? You got blood on the map again?” she asked as crinkled her nose. She always did that when she twisted the lengths of her hair into a tightly wound bun.

Cassandra woke up before she could stutter and cover for herself. This time, it was not in a troubled sweat. She was laying on her side, against her pillow, warm and comfortable. As nice as it was, she preferred to be elsewhere. Somewhere far away, deserted and dry, where the Inquis--where Olivia laughed.

No, Seekers did not fall prey to prophetic mania. But Cassandra had fallen to something far, far holier -- and she was messing it up.


	59. The Knife Twists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions between Mage politics continue to simmer. Inquisitor Sinclair sticks by her guns even when faced with dissention from even her most coveted allies, doing her best to stay true to her vision while respecting people for where they stand. Her friendships continue to both renew and decay. Forgiveness as it turns out is easier said than done. A evening meeting with Cassandra breaks the silence between them, but it not for sentimentalities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to a lot of The Civil Wars for this chapter, particularly their song "Poison & Wine," which I think has grown to being quite fitting for the point Cass and Liv are in with their relationship and all that is unspoken but felt. Just a recommendation if you're looking for mood music while reading. :)

She never knew what to expect when she entered Vivienne’s quarters even after all those months. Sometimes it was over pleasantries and sweet compliments. Others, harsh advisement and aloof dejection. Vivienne never half-assed attitude; but she also never missed a meeting for which she was summoned. When she did not show for one early that morning intended for all the ranking Mages present at the fortress, with no word or dismissive note sent in her stead, something was afoot. Coming through the door and up the stairs Olivia saw why. Madame de Fer was sitting at her desk with piles of books on either end of the refined and carved table, writing and reading with equal fervor. It was at times surprising to see a Mage of her masterful reputation still committed to studies.

With her feet landing at the top of the stairs, Olivia ran her hand through the side of her loose hair and prepared for the response to her entering her zone.

“Your presence was missed this morning, Madame.”

Vivienne did not so much as twitch in her direction. Still writing, still dedicated to the texts underneath her hand. “That is never a shock.”  
“I would not think so,” Olivia smirked as she came forward. Deciding on the tall Orlesian lounge chair across the balcony, she took her seat and folded her arms. “Am I to imagine you wanted a personal debrief on the programs?”

“If I did not attend a meeting, what leads you to believe I desired the information it promised?” Vivienne diced, scrapping her quill across the paper for a particularly decisive letter. It made Olivia’s skin crawl with a shiver, and her lighthearted shell eroded.

“Vivienne, you are always one for knowledge in all things. Since when do you carry yourself a cut above the field in which you play?”

“Since I determined such a practice to be instrumental to my survival and ascension, my Dear. Something you still struggle with even as you play reformer.”

“Vivienne.”

Madame de Fer, even in the face of a raised voice, did not break or bend. She did not react, she responded. Placing her quill back in her ink bottle, she straightened up and slid around in her chair cushion, draping her arm around the back of the rest with her chin held high.

Poised like a creature with both guile and grave teeth to bare, she stared her back down. “Yes?”

Olivia fell back in her chair and crossed a leg, already exasperated. “They are working, and you know it. A full week with no incident reports, morale at unprecedented levels. Work production up twice the previous levels before immersion.”

“Indeed, and plateaued levels in Magical study and experimentation in your newly built tower for which the Inquisition and its allies outfitted with coin and resources. And increased meddling from the rebellion leadership into the centrifugal functions of the Inquisition’s inner circle.”

“…For which I called the meeting this morning.”

“In order to accomplish what? Am I to accept Fiona as my new ally in the field for our travels, now? I can only imagine the uplifted success our people will reap on the front lines. Perhaps she can convince the Red Templars to repent and use their frothing venom to exterminate village vermin,” Vivienne mocked as she rest her hand on her thigh, tilting her posture ever diagonally against her chair.

Olivia narrowed her gaze, arms tightening against her vested chest. “So, this is what you are protesting.”

“I protest nothing, Inquisitor, for there is nothing to uncover about what is directly in front of our noses.”

“You are railing against being held in a room alongside her and her people because it legitimizes them in tandem with my programs.”

“Nothing about power grasped out of fear is legitimate. But it does not need legitimacy to harm or defile.”

They had argued like this on and off for weeks since the programs had been formally enacted. The opening of the tower had marked a troublesome rift that needed constant management in order to stave off. Olivia was gambling with alliances even with the end of the world on the line to unite them. She sighed and loosened up, planting her palms on the arm rests of intricately etched enamel. Morning light cascaded beautifully through the tall, decorative glass of Vivienne’s balcony to illuminate their pained discourse.

“If you had decided to attend, you would know that I have drafted revisions to the leadership’s responsibilities as part of their alliance. They will retain their titles bestowed by Circle rank and the reverence therein, but they will not practice command over the Mage military contingent or the diplomatic personnel while operating in the name of the Inquisition. Cullen is the Commander of our forces, but I will be supervisor of the Mages.”

Vivienne lifted her gaze and leaned back slightly. There was a twinkle in her eye that could be either the window light or her own piqued fascination.

“You have conscripted under the guise of alliance.”

Olivia shook her head once. “I have taken direct responsibility of my garden, as you so gently called it weeks ago.”

“And you have favored certain crops over others.”

“I have ensured that any and all disarray fall on my shoulders, Vivienne. Enchanters still have rank and leadership roles here to fill in the tower, conducting experiments and overseeing study on how to defeat Corypheus. The military and political branches were formed in service to the cause. I have discussed this with Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine and they all see it as fair considering the risks.”

Vivienne huffed air through her nose. “And how big is this formidable contingent?”

“Thirty, but I decided that. We must ensure ratios of work do not fall out of balance with our needs here.”

“Thirty former rebel Mages, trained in combat and military practice?”

“And cavalry. They started training two weeks ago under Cullen and Cassandra, while I have had to focus on preparing for our expedition to the Graves.”

Vivienne reached and turned the page of the book she had resting beside her pile of paper notes. It was as if she had merely forgotten to when she turned away from her activity and wished to rectify her lack of focus. She gazed at the page for a moment with an unreadable expression. Olivia heart raced a bit more expediently whenever she did this: breaking the heated debate with silence in order to reload or reconfigure her ammunition.

Still looking upon her book, Vivienne gave her verdict. “A Mage your age in command of a trained cohort of Battle Mages as well as Diplomatic servants.”

Olivia pursed her mouth a bit. “Ambassador Montilyet will have primary oversight as she should.”

“The Ambassador is very talented, Inquisitor, but she does not know the worth of Mages with ambition. Not like you and I. When you approached me months ago calling for alliance worth our time, I consented because I saw then that you were not the idle and talentless young girl rumored in over her head.” She sat back and stood to her feet, hand on hip. “I answered for you, not for Fiona or her lackeys with their bones to chew on. I of all people understand the circumstances in which we are in call for extension, but I do not sign away my loyalties as a bottomless well.”

Olivia tugged and picked at a loose string at the edge of her billowy tunic sleeves. Such lofty praise, finding out you did exceed a bar that was on the floor. Sometimes it was a wonder what people outside the Inquisition saw when they looked at them: did they see a Holy cause entrusted with the hopes and hearts of the faithful, or a growing and unpredictable creature with its own free will and aspirations for shaping the world? Or, perhaps even worse, a band of misfits from various echelons whose entanglements provided fodder for at least several, full-length operettas. When cataclysm loomed, it was often an invitation for the tectonic heavyweights of the world to rise and battle for supremacy. Vivienne knew that, and Vivienne had taught that to her Inquisitor and friend from the get-go of their alliance. Every step was to be manicured and measured. 

She took a breath and rolled up the sleeve she had been playing with. “I understand, Vivienne, but I would still require your interaction and participation to the level befitting a First Enchanter and ally of the Inquisition.”

“That, my Dear, I am more than willing to offer. But you must be willing to listen without absorbing. You are a scholar, as I was, but I had to learn that not all circumstances teach us better practices than the ones we already have at our disposal.”

Olivia stood up and was once again toe-to-toe with her friend and ally, though Vivienne’s heeled stature held her several inches taller than her in her field boots. Vivienne always rose above the company in both height and presence with absolution.

“I am doing my best, Vivienne, as I tell you every time we talk,” she smiled, dusting off the side of her hip.

“Sure, my Dear.”

It was unclear whether that response was sincere or sarcastic, but Olivia had learned by then that sometimes it was better to let the cards fell how they would. Nodding, she was halted by one last question on Vivienne’s part.

“Oh, I meant to inquire. Your friends that you corralled from the wilderness. Are they also from Ostwick?”

Olivia chuckled and turned back to her. “Yes, all four. Why do you ask?”

“Hm, that is interesting.” Vivienne tapped her nails on her table, gazing out the balcony view. “Four Mages from one of the most conversative Circles who did not remain, and yet did not align with the Rebellion.”

“We…we wanted to live, Vivienne. For all we knew the eye of the storm was a world away. Much has changed.”

Vivienne returned her keen stare to her. “Mm, yes. What potent ingredients you play with.”

“Ingredients for what, exactly?”

“Factions, darling. The cradle and grave and all revolutions.”

Olivia hung and shook her head, a crooked and uncooperative smile on her face as she put her hands on her hips. “Vivienne, we cannot even all be in the same room without a fist fight, sex, or crude joke about asses unfolding. If it is one thing the Foxes are not capable of, it is forming a faction.”

She would have left it at that, but the glint of changing mood in Vivienne as they were about to part ways reminded her. The books behind her, stacked and imported from both the Estate and the library at Skyhold, aided the connected dots. Vivienne did not study for examinations or tests anymore, or to fulfil Circle duties. She studied for the sake of matters no one could define for her or take even as the world and the Imperial Court had both tried.

“Vivienne,” Olivia inquired, sweeter that time. “How is he?”

Madame de Fer looked at her, but at her question she straightened up and adjusted her shoulders. Direction followed by curated strength, even when the question signified something deeper than decorum in her heart’s concerns.

“He is still indisposed, but well, Inquisitor.”

“You will tell me if that changes and you need anything of me?”

“That I shall, Inquisitor. Thank you.”

“Good. You are very welcome. Send me any notes or findings you wish me to cross-reference, I will make the time.” She waved her hand at Madame de Fer one last time before seeing herself out. Vivienne did not lament, nor did she invite pity or sorry-facing. Action and fealty were the sinew between them when politics threatened to sever ties.

For every step downward in the hall and stairs, voices echoed exuberant and insistent in her mind. Just because Vivienne was absent did not mean the meeting went any smoother without her provocative style. _Consolidating control of our armed members is a risky maneuver, Inquisitor! Are you prepared for the ownership? I do not mean to draw attention to your age given your responsibility and experience, your Worship, but…it is worth noting. How can you further divide your attentions with your cause as demanding as it is? Which of your allies will you trust to aid you should you need it?_

She stood for a moment behind the door to the Hall, hand going to her stomach. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. On the other end of the corridor was Solas’s quarters, where he undoubtedly was chipping away at a mural or one of his intellectual investigations. The fire from his candles danced, and she could feel their vibrations from yards away.

‘Faction.’ What an interesting choice of words. Though, not exactly the kind she was going for.

\--

“Are you sure you can simply overlook supper in the Hall? Aren’t they expecting you?” Naomi asked as she crawled into what became her corner of the couch in the Inquisitor’s chambers. Another long day of work was observing the setting sun, giving way to evening where Olivia preferred the company of few rather than all. 

“Don’t complain, Naomi, she may remember that she wants her couch back.” Roslyn, less worried about Olivia’s social habits, took a large bite of bread from the spread of food on the lounge table that had been requested specially by the Inquisitor to be brought up from the kitchens.

Olivia giggled, sitting at her desk and having her fill of more requisition reports and counts of troops returned from Adamant. Paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. Though, getting to watch her friends nibbling away without a care, warm and around a fireplace, comforted her work ethic.

“It is no trouble. I ate privately anyways before you all came here to Skyhold. Though, I must warn you Roslyn if you eat the entire loaf of bread again before I have my fair share, I shall set your hair on fire.”

Roslyn chortled, kicking back on the smaller sofa with her legs crossed over the armrest. Chewing with her mouth open of course. For multiple nights it had been the three of them, Roslyn and Naomi being the most welcome out of them all to share her food, wine, and company while the other two paid their dues. Though, in the weeks since their arrival, their ostracization had only become more noticeable and less sustainable. It wasn’t for Olivia’s lack of trying, to be sure: having Veronica’s mouth and Theia’s sorry eyes out of sight and out of mind proved too good of a break to resist.

Finishing another line and signing off another report, Olivia flipped the page and did her best to keep herself contented. Meanwhile, Naomi was pulling her head of curls back into any semblance of a bun she could muster with their wily thickness, scarf twisted around her wrist she would use to tie it all together. Roslyn watched her with a grin, twirling her foot around in a circle in the air.

“What’s on your face?” Naomi teased back at her.

“Nothing, you just have curly hair, is all.”

Naomi smirked. “The only Antivan custom my family line could afford.”

Olivia dropped her quill down and licked her finger, sifting through more pages. “That, and your charm, intelligence, and kindness,” she added for good measure. She gazed up and watched as Naomi masterfully conquered her head of beautifully thick, dark brown curls into a rounded bun. A few wily strands falling in and around her face making her look like a garden muse or forest nymph by the angles of her profile. Antivan women even in their most relaxed looked poised to command or converse with Kings just as easy as friends. It was something she admired in Josephine, which in turn only strengthened her affection for it in her friend. Though, Naomi had known a much different life than the Chief Ambassador had in Rialto Bay.

“Meh, what are families good for anyway,” Roslyn interjected as she grabbed another piece of meat. “I was to be a soldier’s broodmare for more soldiers, and look how I turned up? Agent of an Inquisition. Huh, if only I could watch my Father choke on the wine.”  
Naomi forked at her own plate, preferring to use utensils and table manners. “Families are supposed to be loving and safe for us to be ourselves, Lyn. Anything different is a mere distortion.”

“That’s nice, I’ll remember that next time I reminisce about my hips being measured year after year.” Roslyn picked at her teeth with her pinky finger. It made Naomi chuckle and turn away for the sake of politeness.

As Olivia finished up her work, she couldn’t help but silently agree with her freckled-faced and cynical friend, even in the face of Naomi’s sweetness. Families bound and buried horrible truths just as much as endearing memories. Roslyn was a Free Marcher, bred and born the daughter of a family with generations of military veterans. All she ever wanted was to join their ranks. But healthy women were needed to produce healthy men more than they were needed to bare blades in a village where they were outnumbered 3:1. Raised with three brothers and no sisters until she was encircled at the age of fourteen, her maturation was rather crass in comparison to Olivia’s lonely gilded cage.

Naomi swallowed her mouthful of food and set her plate in her lap, looking hesitant but not enough to stop her from trying whatever it was she had in mind. 

“Olivia.”

She tilted her head, and her vision refocused. “Naomi.”

“…When are you going to forgive them?”

The question sent a shiver up her spine. Immediately, Olivia’s shoulders went rigid and she pumped her chest out, filing papers into a folder for Ambassador Montilyet to receive in the morning.

“I told you all, I have already forgiven.”

Roslyn snorted again, chewing on one side of her mouth with her head propped on a pillow. “That sounds promising.”

“I mean it,” Olivia bit back, rising out of her chair and closing the book she had in front of her. “I have no grudges or animus.”

“Then why is it neither of them come with me when I invite them to supper up here, rather than in the Hall or the tavern by themselves?”

“Because,” Olivia answered as she came around her desk, still dressed in her black formal coat and breeches from the day, “they are guilty, and I haven’t the time to lick their wounds with them.”

Roslyn rolled onto her side, propping her shoulder up with her elbow. “Come on, it’s been a week since the last fight either of them started.”

“A week.” Olivia scoffed. “How kind of them to not represent me so poorly for once.”

Naomi sighed and placed her plate on the table, clearly no longer one for eating. “Theia will not stop coming to me wondering how to make it all right. You know her better than us all. You must know she is sorry.”

“I know full well.”

“Then….then…”

“Then why do you drag out the wound when you could just yank the arrow and patch it all up? Rub some dirt on it or something.”  


“…Yes, thank you,” Naomi nodded with relief. “What Roslyn said.”

Olivia groaned, arriving at the sofa opposite Roslyn and collapsing down on her ass with a huff. She crossed her legs underneath her and reached for a slice of bread for herself. Faced now with both their concerned expressions, not even a full table of food and wine could ease the ache she had for the topic at hand. This was the last thing she wanted to debate or decide, with everything else going on.

“Look,” Olivia explained as she pulled apart the slice of sourdough, chin tucked to her neck in shyness, “I’ve got a lot on my plate. The troops have just finished returning from Adamant two days ago, our numbers and supplies need replenishing, the Wardens are rebuilding with our alliance and I can never hear the end of it that I did not banish them for what they did to the woman with the tall hat. The Graves expedition is first thing in the new year. Corypheus is out there with what remains of his numbers, we have reports of Elven ruins being trespassed and ransacked across Thedas, because clearly the Elves have just not suffered enough with the Ages of war, genocide, and land grabbing. And my initiatives with the Mages are either the worst idea anyone has ever thought of, or the best, and the verdict changes by the hour. The Empress stands to be assassinated and somehow that means I have to secure an invitation to a Ball of all things, instead of, you know, simply telling her she could be assassinated. Do not even get me started on having to shove all this in a gown again and perhaps paste a mask to my head, because just hearing Josephine explain the semantics makes me want to crawl out of my own skin or threaten to become a Blood Mage so they will leave me alone.”

Naomi and Roslyn looked on, faces dropping progressively further from hopeful to forlorn.

“Well, don’t look at us, you’re the Orlesian and the Herald…person,” Roslyn offered in vain to lighten the load. Olivia shot her a glare that immediately told her just how successful that was, before huffing and taking a bite of her tortured bread piece.

“The last thing I need to do is divert more attention to my interpersonal life. I am not here to be Olivia, I am here to be Inquisitor. You two and them are the only ones who look at me and see something from before the Conclave. I know it feels…it feels like when we’re all here, like this, that it can be like it used to be, but it can’t. I’m not their sweet, petite friend who giggles and plays along with their misdeeds. I’m the biggest target for ammunition in Thedas.”

Naomi furrowed her brow in sympathy, pulling off the throw blanket she had brought with her as she rose and scooted over to be beside her. She placed her hand on Olivia’s forearm and grasped gently, enough to draw attention but not take away her feeling of physical autonomy. She was always good at towing that line; perhaps that was the reason she made such a good and natural healer. 

“Olivia, you know what I did today?”

The Inquisitor narrowed her gaze, stopping mid-chew to look at her with bizarre fear. “…You finally got Commander Cullen to not complain about the taste of those medicines you keep making for him and his headaches?”

Naomi groaned and slapped her on the arm. “No! I told you I did that a week ago. Ugh, I mean this morning! I got to make spice bread for the first time from scratch. I made the dough, let it proof, kneaded it, and baked it. I saw it from start to completion, using nothing but my own hands and reading notes. I haven’t ever done something so simple and yet so rewarding in my life.” She held out her hands flat, like she was holding the loaf between them invisibly. “When the Rebellion broke we thought ourselves done for. But look at what we have become. Mighty, and capable bakers. Years of the Circle made us lose what we never had the chance to miss, in favor of being ideologically pure. We are capable of being imperfect and alive.”

She always knew how to cut right to the heart. Dammit, Naomi. Olivia put down her bread and fought the urge to cry from the stress it all invoked. Her chin curdled, but she did not let the water rise and overflow from her eyes. Sometimes all it took was someone daring to do what no one else thought was necessary, and tell the woman tasked with saving the world that what she was doing was good. Not amazing, not unprecedented: just simply good.

Roslyn rubbed her knee and made a “tsk” sound with her tongue. “See Gem, you’re doing fine. Hey, you know what I got to do?”

“What, Lyn?”

Roslyn smiled mischievously. “I got to stick a man in the ass with a sword.”

Naomi put her hand to her mouth and gasped a bit. “You! You were the one who did it!?”

“Yes! I damn well did!” Roslyn slapped her thigh and laughed. “He howled like a Mabari who had soiled the carpet! I almost died laughing. Seeker Pentaghast was all pouty, but I know she found it funny, too.”

Naomi tossed her head back, rolling her eyes and rubbing her face. “Lyn, I had to patch that man’s behind for an hour thanks to you. Who do you think sees all the gore and guts when you’re done playing soldier in the training fields!?”

Roslyn shrugged. “I dunno. Thought maybe he’d get up and get on with the day like a man.”

“Ugh, Maker! I should have known when he kept crying about a fire-haired bastard, something-or-other.”

Olivia couldn’t help but laugh while she ate, eyes squarely on the plate she was assembling from the collected platters of food while her friends bickered. Chicken, roasted carrots, and bread, with a nice dollop of gravy on the side to dip and spread out. A plate of staples to a good meal.

“Whatever,” Roslyn concluded, “The Seeker and Commander thought it fair play.”

“The Seeker is an interesting woman,” Naomi fixated with her well-meaning curiosity, returning to her seat on the large couch. She found her plate again and set it on the cushion beside her. “I hear she is Nevarran. Some say she’s royalt—”

Olivia’s choking on her half-swallowed bite cut Naomi off in her harmless speculation. Hunched over her plate and lap while the other two looked on in concern, she couldn’t believe her luck for cringe-worthy subjects. After a moment she finally got it all down, her face warm with both blush and exertion.

“What in the heavens is the matter with you?” Naomi looked on with slight horror.

“I…ugh, gah. forgive me. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Who needs to think to chew?” Roslyn asked, ever one to compound the embarrassment.

The door opened, sounding off and providing Olivia with cover so she would not have to explain herself for reacting like a fool to the utterance of Cassandra’s clout. Feet climbing up the stairs made her set her plate off her lap and stand. To her dismay, the distraction was not an ideal one: it was Theia, with her white hair braided neatly out of her face and simple but cleanly tailored blue gown. Tall and well-washed, not a hair out of place or wrinkle in her clothes. Customary apparel when in the service of an Ambassador. She held a note in her hand and anxious look on her face.

“Inquisitor,” she bowed her head after staring blankly for a moment, “I…I have word from the Council room.”

The girls all froze, Roslyn looking at Theia and Naomi looking at Olivia. She was covertly asking for clemency, for softness from her friend who was asked so much of already. Olivia acknowledged her, and it spurred her iced heart to try beating again.

“The Council room during supper?” she asked as she approached and took the note. It was hastily written and unsealed. Josephine and Leliana were neater in their correspondence, and even Cullen would fold more carefully. The note must have been done for the sake of formality unheeded.

As she read, Theia brought the truth to light for all to hear. “It is from Seeker Pentaghast. She wishes for you to meet her there for the news regarding the missing Seekers.”

Olivia listened but she would have already known. Cassandra’s handwriting was practiced but heavy-handed. She could spot the sharply-curved loops and lines dragged by the broad-side of the quill edge at fifty paces out. As familiar as it was, Sera’s trademark phrase “rubbish” came to mind.

'Please see me at once in the Council room, if there are no other matters you must attend to this evening. C.'

Olivia was not the only one who knew she liked to take supper in seclusion.

“She has been waiting for this for weeks now. I better see her,” she concluded, folding and pressing the paper between her thumb and index finger. Her attention returned to Theia, who looked on but did not dare to reciprocate eye contact. For a friend so much taller than she, Olivia felt the more looming set of shoulders for once.

“Theia, why don’t you sit down and have supper with Naomi and Roslyn. I might take a while, and I am sure you haven’t eaten yet.”

Eyes on the back of her head intensified as her offer cracked all expectations apart. Theia looked up, eyes rounded with scarcely surviving hope. Her lips parted but she struggled to respond: a rarity for the smooth talker she always was.

“I…I have…well, I—”

Olivia grinned. “Tell Josephine you can blame me if you are gone for a half hour. I promise you she will not be upset. Come.” It was not the same as inviting her to talk or laugh as they used to. It was not hiding under bedsheets and giggling like small children, pressing cold feet on one another’s legs. It wasn’t reuniting in a mountain pass after both thought the other dead. But it was something.

Theia mirrored her cautious smile, her shoulders slouching with slighter ease. “…Thank you, Olivia.”

Olivia nodded, patting her on the side of the shoulder before she moved past her towards the stairs. Before descending she turned back and watched Theia join the other two around the couch, warm greetings and smiles between them all. Her caveat to Naomi, that it could all never be as it once was, was harder to believe in those snapshot moments. If she could not be who she used to be, she could at least provide for her friends who still could. Even when they were gigantic pains in her backsides.

\--

Josephine’s office was still lit up even when vacant – the Ambassador never liked to traffic her workspace and be unprepared by anything, including lack of daylight. One never knew when a sudden missive or Raven would require her immediate action. In many ways the Ambassador was responsible for as much triage capability in crises as the Healers, though her cases were less saturated with gore; for those dealings, they had Leliana. Through the first set of double doors and closing in on the second, Olivia did her best to assemble her workplace demeanor. Decisive, attentive, strong. The only thing un-pressed being her hair tucked back in a ponytail. A meeting was a meeting, was it not?

Though, sliding through the door and seeing her on the other side, Olivia’s head became a litany of demands. Cassandra looked just as she did: still dressed in the day’s uniform, ready and willing, on the other side of the map table. When their eyes met a rock formed in her throat.

Without a word, the Inquisitor shut the door behind her. She was still holding the note as she came forward, traversing down the straight line of the rug under her boots.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra nodded, putting space between her and the table. “I am grateful you have come to see me.”

No words. No change in expression. Just staring, note crinkling in between her swiveling fingers.

“…Inquisitor?”

“Oh, forgive me, I was just seeing if you were going to grow wings and fly out the stained-glass window now that you are within a stone’s throw of my presence unendangered.”

Cassandra sighed, suspense squashed with Olivia’s surefire wit. She joined her hands behind her back. “Perhaps I deserve that, for my reticence as of late.”

She was placating. Nothing made Olivia sorrier for her temper than casting it upon a subordinate target. It only made her blood boil more bitterly, because she knew Cassandra knew that. Still, she was playing along for a reason. She hardly ever swallowed her pride for a matter.

“You wished to see me, Cassandra.”

“You have my note, and the report of the missing Seekers?”

“Yes, that I do.”

“I…” Cassandra looked back down at the map between them, specifically the Fereldan side. “Caer Oswin. All this time, and I could not see it. It makes no sense. To have them all gone, all vanished as if such a feat were possible.”

“Corypheus pulled a similar rouse with the Templars. The Orders have been strained and decaying for years, now.”

“That may be so, but they are not as easy to completely destroy. I wish to go to Caer Oswin and find out once and for all.”

Olivia closed in on her side of the table. She scanned the part of the map where Oswin had been marked, on the other side of the lake in central Fereldan. A considerable distance for a solo mission.

“It would take a week one way by cavalry, maybe a day or two less if you cut through the lake. And that does not account for what you will find when you arrive there.”

“I do not back down from the risk of the unknown,” Cassandra side-stepped until she was staring her down head-on, both women now marking the two sides negotiating terms. “I may have left the Order, but I cannot abandon them.”

“They abandoned us, Cassandra. You saw the Lord Seeker yourself, how he spat on you. He is mad with power. Who is to say he is not behind this?” That day in Val Royeaux was a cursed one. Useless effort to convince and pry at an Order and a Chantry both corrupted beyond help. That day, a less scarred and experienced Olivia felt childishly vindicated for her prejudices. In hindsight, though, it was different.

“Lord Seeker Lucius was not always prone to displays of zealotry. His appearance at the Capitol cannot be all there is to the story. The Seekers are not something to be discarded. They have a purpose, one I still believe in.” Cassandra did not default on her standards in the face of speculative fire. Never. 

Olivia sighed heavily, lowering her head and rubbing her forearm with her gloved hand.

“Inquisitor, I will carry out this mission alone, if I must. I understand you…have many responsibilities here that require your presence. I cannot ask you to fight for the sake of something I know you, yourself do not condone. But this is my duty, and I will not falter on it.”

The audacity. The nerve. The pretense. Weeks of no conversation, word, or regard, and this is what she came up with. Olivia sucked on her teeth to hold back the urge to go off, knowing that in Cassandra’s hopeful but reserved demeanor there was a wish to do right. And damn it all if it didn’t disarm her quicker than a dispellation ever could.

“Are you the only one bound to our promise, then?”

Cassandra’s jawline tensed, the angles of her cast in dark and light shadows in the surrounding mounted torchlight, and the chandelier above their heads. They reflected in her hazel eyes so warmly despite the grim nature of the discussion.

“I did not want to assume that—”

“Cassandra.” Olivia sighed, reaching to the back of her belt – and what would she have to share but her harvesting knife, her faithful tool in all things. Clean and polished as always. She paused and stared at the map begrudgingly. Then, she shook her head, biting her lip and arguing with herself in her own head. _I’ll never forgive myself if she dies. And I would be a monster in grief._

And with that, she raised her knife underhanded and struck Caer Oswin down. Though the hammered boom was abrupt, neither of them flinched. The knife pierced and stuck, angled and shining as she stood back. Reverent silence filled the room as they both stared at it. She inhaled deep, chest as cold and hard as alabaster.

“If it is to Caer Oswin you go, it is Caer Oswin I go.”

Cassandra lifted her gaze to her, eyes narrowing with renewed focus. She looked as if she had realized something, an epiphany unworthy of dismantling the conversation. She nodded once in affirmation. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

_I miss when you say my name, as much as I hate it._

“Of course. I gave you my word. I will request that Dorian and Sera accompany us. If you give me three days, I can delegate responsibilities and everyone can prepare for the voyage. Josephine will write ahead to our people stationed by the lake coast to arrange passage.”

“I will report to Cullen and assure that training and routines maintain themselves while we are gone.”

“Yes, good,” Olivia said, rubbing the hide of her breeches on her thighs. “I trust all is shaping up nicely?”

Cassandra furrowed a brow a bit. “The Mages are…unused to proper conditioning and physical tests of strength. But they are learning. And yet, they are proving resilient and high in morale.”

“Good. Mages are not as coddled as you believed them to be, you know.”

Cassandra eyed her. “…No, they are not. That…that one friend of yours, her name escapes me. She has red hair, does she not?”

Olivia looked away and smiled, shaking her head once. “Roslyn.”

“Yes, Roslyn. She does not give leeway to her adversaries with her blade. It is rather impressive.”

“Indeed, she is full of surprises like that.”

The inconvenient urge to be soft and jovial was upon Olivia, and she gnawed at the inside of one of them to suppress it. She let her arms fall, and took one last look at the map, her knife standing out amongst the fray of symbols and heraldry. Leliana would wonder about it in the morning, out loud and full of innuendo, to be sure.

“How…how are you, Inquisitor?”

Olivia frowned at once, as if a switch had been flipped in her. No way in heaven or otherwise would she play along with this. She was already riding along for what was sure to be a mission suicidal for her time and patience, for someone she was more loyal to than the Order which defined them.

“Don’t ask me that.”

“You really expect me not to care entirely?”

“You have been doing a fine job of it for weeks, why stop now?”

Cassandra's face dropped more, but it wasn't the reservations of a warrior. It was the sullen look of a friend fending off defeat. “Inquisitor, I…”

Olivia interrupted by trying to leave, cradling her arms across her chest. Walking with energetic evasiveness, she was almost to the door in a matter of several steps.

“Inquisitor, please.”

Olivia broke her gate, swaying as she rocked her head back. She came around, dragging her feet as she did. Cassandra was standing there tall and unbent, as if her pleading came from a ghost and not her own mouth. Her eyes strayed down to the harvesting knife on the table, before she locked them again with Olivia’s.

“…Yes?”

“I cannot predict what…what Caer Oswin holds, or what the aftermath will be. But I promise you, once this is resolved, I will explain myself.”

Olivia, nonplussed and desiring nothing more than to put a door between them, and another one after that, she exhaled. “I did not know there was something to explain.”

“There is, and Maker willing, I will be able to do so without making everything worse with my rhetoric or temper… or my sword.”

A smirk escaped. A simple one, but it happened. Olivia tucked her chin away from her when it happened, but something about the way Cassandra’s attitude softened even with a room between them let her know her discretion was for naught. She looked out to the windows and how dark they had become. The sun had long set.

 _I missed you._ “I appreciate that, but I will not hold my breath. Our adventures rarely clean up after themselves.”

Cassandra chuckled, as if the situation could not be worse. “That is true.”

The Seeker then walked around the right side of the table, removing the barrier between them and making Olivia’s need to escape insurgent. She stood her ground, though, with each step she made. She stopped with a few feet between them, the closest she had been in weeks, her stoic face with its scars and slight wrinkle lines that she had forgotten in the distance and time that had built itself between them.

“You are worried,” Olivia admitted as she stopped herself from being caught staring. 

“I am.” There was a breathiness in her tone as she frowned, a tell of sincerity.

“Look, no matter what, I…I respect what you are doing. And I don’t mince my loyalties. Much as you and Cullen must joke about my girlish flippancies.”

They started walking, together this time. Cassandra opened the door for them, a strong arm flat across the wood for Olivia to cross over first.

“That is ridiculous. I do not gossip, least of all with Cullen.”

Olivia raised a brow, watching for broken bluff face before walking ahead. Free of her glaring scrutiny, Cassandra got the last word in behind her.

“…We discuss.”


	60. Though Heavens Fall (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The voyage to Caer Oswin bears an end to the mystery of the missing Seekers, but it is anything but relieving. Cassandra, the Inquisitor, Dorian, and Sera battle their way through the fort -- and Olivia's detachment from the Order's fate stands and shakier ground as she watches the woman she cannot resist suffer to salvage what remains.

_16th Crossus, 9:41 Dragon_

_Journal,_

_We are heading to Caer Oswin in the morning. As much as I have begun to tire of being in Skyhold for so long -- and believe me, it nauseates me to admit that -- I am not thrilled to be hunting down the Seeker’s stench. The Lord Seeker was a vile man, and I will dread having to save him if it turns out he was ‘misguided’ in his treachery. Why is it than mediocre men get their asses spared so often in history because they claim they were led astray? Dogs are led astray, do Fereldens not train them to do otherwise?_

_Cassandra, as I expected, has hardly said a word to me since our discussion in the Council room. I am unsurprised but still bereft. My intuition says patience but my mind says accept it: accept that she may have never been as flexible and open as I wanted her to be. Friendship may have run its course between us, but dammit, I cannot ever unbind myself from my word to her. It is like we are spinning around each other, hung on the same hook but on different ribbons; I imagine those traipse performers in the city square during holidays. They always combined together in unison, two bodies into one. Cassandra and I only crash and cling, graceless as the days we were born._

_Perhaps it is for the better. With the girls back, I have people in my corner. Veronica still avoids me, but Theia is slowly picking herself up and carrying on. Ro was always right, as much as I hate it: Theia can mope like no one else. I am glad she is starting to move on. Naomi now reduces her nagging of me to fix things with Veronica once and for all, to once or twice a day. “We are stronger together than we are apart!” and “She can only change if she is given the opportunity to!” and all that compassionate nonsense. For as much as I adore Naomi with every inch of my self, she is the most obnoxiously mature person to have around when you simply want to keep hold of anger._

_Maker’s breath. Maybe a trip to Central Fereldan will be good._

_Let us see what men have made messes of again, for everyone else to clean up._

_OBS  
_  


\--

“As the Seekers of truth have proven resistant to the effects of red lyrium, the Elder One has seen fit to place them in your care. Reclaim your destiny, and know that the Elder one expects your devotion as repayment. Signed by Lord Samson, commander of the red Templars. Does Corypheus not realize the Promisers want the world to end? What use are they to him?”

The group had assembled around the bodies they had struck down in the courtyard of Caer Oswin. Armed and already well and bloodied, the Inquisitor, Sera, and Dorian had not one collective clue about the Promisers before that day. Cassandra’s question was thus a shot in the dark.

Olivia bent onto her knee as she yanked one of Sera’s arrows from a man’s armor. Recycling was important when your arrows were expensively made with fire runes.

“Chaos as an agenda doesn’t need the formality of formula, no?” she asked as she rose to her feet. She handed the arrow to Sera when she approached, she herself carrying several she had collected.

“No, but Corypheus still had needs of his alliances. This doesn’t explain how he captures the Seekers in the first place, or what’s been done with them. We must keep looking.”

Olivia came closer to her, but only so far as a few steps could take her. “Don’t worry, Cassandra,” she said, sounding like a begrugened friend enabling a revenge plot, “we’ll find them and figure this all out.”

“I know we will.”

Cassandra loosened her neck up, tossing the letter back onto the body she found it on and pushing onward towards large double-doors up a stairway. She had been like this the entire almost week of travel: engaged, but elusive. Hardly talking more than a few sentences to Dorian or Sera, and only having sorely polite silence for Olivia. Though she had seemed apologetic when she had come to her asking for the mission, it seemed as though she had taken foot of leash and ran a mile with Olivia’s kindness.

Or, maybe she was just genuinely stressed and emotional about the Seekers, and Olivia would have to let her stay that way.

Standing still for a moment longer, Olivia grasped her staff at her back to ready herself for more fighting that would surely greet them on the other side of the door. Dorian sidestepped to her, watching Cassandra wait for nothing and no one.

“It was my understanding Seekers were immune to a great many things, but red lyrium? Now that is a occupational perk. I wonder what the retirement plan involves.”

Olivia sighed. “I think there’s more to it than that. But come on, we should follow her before she gets herself killed.”

Following after Olivia who now walked forcefully to catch up, he swiveled his staff grip around like a paton.

“I remember a similar phrase uttered when you invited me along. I didn’t think it would actually line up with your flare for melodrama.”

“Perhaps if my allies had other interests besides life-threatening causes I would have other activities to invite you for.”

“Touche. Well, best take up stitching then like I have been meaning to all these years. Then I could convince you to volunteer as my esteemed pin cushion. Stick it to the Inquisitor!” Dorian swallowed back a laugh, “Harpoon the Herald, even better.”

“Dorian, if this ends anything less than catastrophically, the first thing I’m doing back at camp is fighting y--”

“Would you two quit it?!” Sera barked from the stairs, bow in hand and scowl bearing down on them, “I’m gonna stick the both of you, ass up and mouth shut.”

Sera helped Olivia to recenter her attention ahead, and with good timing: Cassandra was readying herself to push through with her own two hands rather than see if it was barricaded. Blunt force problem solving, as always.With a steady but deep breath Olivia raised her hands facing both doors one for one. The doors began to glow blue-green, and she sensed the lock securely in place within the door’s mechanism. With a rotation of her fingers and touch of heat she melted and reduced the metal within it, and pushed. The door opened and released molten iron that quickly solidified thanks to another hint of ice.

Cassandra grabbed her sword. Olivia only offered a half-second of eye contact to her before the armed group awaiting them made themselves known. Several Promisers, mostly shield warriors and a couple of sword fighters. It was going to be annoying, and their ears would hurt from all the noise of clashing and breaking their head-to-toe armor. How wonderful. Good humor didn’t help kill them any faster. Olivia switched gears quick and nodded to Sera. 

“Flank them.” Then she turned to Dorian, still at her side as their staffs both came alive with their oscillating energies.

“I got the heat if you have the ice.”

Dorian gestured his hand out slightly cupped, a surging orb of purple light forming. “You will have what I offer.”

“Picky.” Olivia smiled wryly. Smoke blew and seeped from between her black painted lips and white teeth. The colors of her staff’s inertia of light turned grey to match, and she widened her stance. Across the floor she locked onto a man with sword and shield, and the shine of her shadowy brilliance reflected both in the tempered metal and the fear in his eyes. 

Dorian smirked and dug his feet into his stance. They would be shoulder to shoulder in all things.

The fighting was tedious and full of yelling voices insisting they go for the Mages, yada yada yada, kill the Inquisitor! Unoriginal and all-the-more satisfying to see the last one fall. The most eventful part was towards the end, when Olivia had maneuvered herself to be back-to-back with Cassandra, setting off fire glyphs behind her to protect her comrade while she stuck one through the neck with her staff blade. The dead trampled the rest of them -- what few remained standing through the barrage of flaming arrows -- proving that Dorian’s insistence on necromancy came with perks.

At the very end, Olivia dug at the back of her belt for her dagger, spinning back and sinking it into the neck of Cassandra’s foe. His broad and tall shield had been taking the brunt of Cassandra’s greatsword. The man gurgled and coughed up blood through his helmet and sunk onto his knees as she held it in. She watched as the life left his eyes, huffing through her nose as she yanked her blade free of his flesh. Cassandra panted heavily at her side. 

“Well,” Olivia slid the blade across the side of her thigh clean, “they weren’t expecting a party.”

“What kind of party is this shite?” Sera called from the other side of the hall, coming out from between the thick columns. “Were they just standing ‘round like rubbish waiting to be taken out?”

“Paranoia comes to mind. It is almost as if we are working with fringe cultists. Damn near makes me homesick,” Dorian played, stomping the blade of his staff onto the ground. He wiped off the sides of his armor cloth as if he had just gotten dust or wine on his finery.

Cassandra groaned and muttered with frustration. “Still no sign.”

“Cassandra.” Her tone was warning, but the careful kind. She sheathed her dagger and pulled stray hairs from her face. “One step at a time.”

Once again, however, Cassandra had superseded the need for communication with the need to progress. She hadn’t been this way since the Conclave aftermath. She was nearly frothing at the mouth with determination even by her standards. In the wake of so much magical expenditure and physical duress it was difficult to consistently empathize in the moment. But, if they had done all this work to get there, she would try.

“Come on,” Olivia waved to the others, not bothering to put her staff away.

Up another flight of Maker-forsaken stairs and through large rooms of chests and armory cabinets. The place was made for receiving formidable audiences and ceremony processionals despite being so rurally located. Cassandra had already busted through the double-doors on the east side as evidenced by one being half-unhinged. Olivia ran through, friends at her side, to see their Seeker approaching what looked to be a man on the ground. Finally, someone that wasn’t itching to kill them.

She jogged to catch up, and her relief was quickly curtailed by dread.

“Daniel!” Cassandra called to him as she rushed, putting her sword away. “Daniel, Maker.”

Daniel? Olivia clutched her staff grip harder as she arrived at her side, Dorian and Sera close behind her on either side of her shoulder. Gaunt and sickly looking with limbs or red scouring his skin, Daniel was an unfortunate sight to see. He was clad in armor but looking as defenseless as a prey animal in the woods having been found by the wrong set of teeth. He groveled and ached, and Olivia could feel the reverberating sensations of lyrium off of him. She looked back at Dorian, his grim expression confirming it on his end as well.

“Cassandra…” he managed, eyes blinking open and clearing in their brightness, “it is you...you’re alive…”

“As are you. I am so glad I found you.” Cassandra had softened. It was upsetting to see, hear, and feel, as if she had found a crumb in the trail to satiate her undying hunger for clarity.

“No, they...put a demon inside me. It’s tearing me up.”

Cassandra sat up from her crouched-over position. “What? That is impossible, th--”

“I’m not possessed. They...they fed me things. I can feel it...it is growing…inside me…”

He had grown ashen, as if becoming burned without a pyre. His eyes, sunken in and dark, his lips chapped more than she had ever seen on a living human being. He was drying out, like a husk. The pain and the anguish must have been immeasurable. All that time, all that traversed terrain and struck-down adversaries, and the stakes finally came alive for her. In his eyes she saw the humanity denied and distanced from her her entire life and with new avarice for the perpetrators.

Olivia was the one to crouch down now, seeking a better look at him. She bit her lip and peeked up, now reckoning. “Cassandra, this is...this is despicable.”

Daniel kept trying. “The...the Lord Seeker…”

“We will find him Daniel, and we will make right wh--”

“Lucius betrayed us, Cassandra He sent us here, one by one. An ‘important mission.’ Lies. He was here with them, working...”

Olivia had chewed on that bone ever since Cassandra brought this journey up. Only now did it make her feel like pulling her teeth out as penance. But, to be fair, it did not all add up.

“The Lord Seeker was at the Capitol. How could he have been there and all the way here in Central Fereldan?”

“That wasn’t him. It was a demon, masquerading.” In that, it all clicked, for better or for worse.

“What? How could that be?” Cassandra asked, spit flying from her mouth.

Olivia hung her tired neck and felt her muscles bracing against the rigidity of her metal. Wiping her mouth, she looked once more to Cassandra, who’s nightmares all flickered in her eyes unabated. She didn’t need to say anything, though.

“I intend to find out what all of this means,” Cassandra concluded, sure but somber.

Well, there was no point in halting their advance for the sake of a piecemeal trail of truth. Olivia rose to her feet, ready to play catch up again if needed, but Daniel reminded them both of his existence.

“No! Don’t leave me here, please…” he begged, chin up towards the Inquisitor. For some reason his eyes followed her and it disquieted her. She had never been the leader of this mission, nor was she the shoulders it would all bear down upon at the end of the line. But something in the sight of him made her feel as guilty as any mortal could be.

Cassandra stood slowly. “You should have come with me. You didn’t believe in the war any more than I did.”

He gurgled a sound, faint like a chuckle. “You know, I just...wanted that promotion.” His attempt to smile broke Olivia’s heart. Even more so when he coughed, too sparse of breathing to manage humor, even in his final moments. There was only one thing to be done. She stood aside, watching Cassandra as she went from sullen friend to deliberate warrior, doing something they must do one too many times to stomach life the same way again. She drew her sword and held the blade to his neck.

“Go to the Maker’s side, Daniel.” Not a command, but a hope.

Olivia had seen death and smiled before, time and time again. But in that moment, she had to turn away.

\--

The real Lucius also monologued like an imbecile; his face and existence inspired new hatred in Olivia’s soul. The Lord Seeker, flesh and bone with no demon to play pretend in sight. Who knew he would make the demon impersonator the more desirable foe to confront. He and his remaining followers put up the best fight of all of them that day, but even they were no match for the assemblage of magic, rogue, and warrior animus. Down the line he had become fixated on Olivia, squaring up with her through the field. He rushed her with his shield and took her down fast, but not enough for her to lose focus on a flame spell.

She engulfed him in a banner plume of black smoke and flame as she slid off her side in the dirt. The side of her head hurt, as did her shoulder, and she spat pooled blood from between her teeth. He was yelling, but she wanted him to scream.

She growled and took hold of her staff, holding it overhead to block his swinging axe. The staff held its own -- sturdy design by a stellar Arcanist -- but she didn’t have the muscle he did. Deadlocked but with limited time she searched for a way to outsmart him as he bore down on her.

An arrow snapped through the air, striking him in the shoulder. Sera, beloved and timely Sera.

Having her chance, Olivia swung her leg up and him flat in the space of amor between his thigh and knee cap. Just enough to destabilize him further while he realized the arrow had hit him. Then, She pressed unto the ground with her flattened palm, setting in another glyph and rolling out of the way of the axe coming down hot on her.

On her back she exhaled white smoke and swung her legs into the air, the momentum rolling her up onto her feet. He was still pummeling towards her, snarling like a dog too-long starved. Everything else grew farther and farther away from her in senses: the air was smoke, the sounds were echoes, the taste was sour sweat.

“You are still a pretty little distraction,” he sneered, holding his axe out pointed at her chest level.

She held her staff at her side, feeling the glyph grow more and more. She half-circled him to keep him pacing on it until it could be just enough. Just enough to take him out for good. She could finish him off with a dagger and a curse.

But, then, out the corner of her eye, there was Cassandra. Slaying another man, another Promiser who had made the unfortunate choice of taking her on. Olivia’s fury grew manners: this wasn’t her fight, and it wasn’t her journey. It wasn’t her prayer to make peace with after everything was said and done. And it sure as hell wasn’t her kill.

She opened her hand at her hip and released the glyph into dormancy.

“Lucius!” the woman of the hour yelled across the grass, sword bared along with her avarice. Feeling the pull of someone more angry, more righteous than the Herald ever would be, Lucius looked back at Cassandra and saw his match. He pulled the arrow from his shoulder and tossed it.

“If I die today, at least I do not live a heretic like you.”

Sweat dripped off the side of Cassandra’s brow as she closed in on him. He was loose in his steps, clumsy, dizzy even. They could hear his breathing from several yards away. Olivia walked the perimeter of the showdown to Sera’s side, she herself holding her bow cocked and ready to take him down should he pose a threat to Cassandra.

Cassandra stopped as she held her sword to his chest, edge clashing into his chest plate.

“Atonement is a blessing, Lucius, one which you will go without.”

She swung high. High, and then deep. And it was done.


	61. Though Heavens Fall (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Caer Oswin sinks in. Olivia gives Cassandra space, but silence grows louder over time. Their first conversation ends up being the last straw, as Olivia realizes she has more to lose than just time and energy to the Seekers as a lost cause.

The Inquisition scouts and guard that had accompanied were in good spirits when the allies arrived back from the fortress. Their fervor was snuffed out within the hour, a product of Cassandra’s brooding vitriol and the others’ sensitivity to it. All that work and all they got was a Seeker’s Tome and a villain speech that was so annoying it was memorable.

Inquisition history mattered little. History mattered little. Conspiracies about rectifying the world with a new Order in the face of certain doom, though colorful in concept, still mattered little. Olivia had had her fill of world-shaking revelations for a lifetime, yet they still somehow trickled in around every corner. Lucius died a maddened coward, but whether or not he had fallen far from grace depended on who you asked.

Mouths stayed relatively sealed for the first night. Even Dorian and the Inquisitor, who had sworn to battle wits, maintained a sense of equilibrium both in mood and mouth. Olivia scarcely got within ten feet of Cassandra, who always carried the tome nearby as if posed to defend it with her life. Even if she reviled it with her skepticism. 

It was not until the fourth night, when they found a campground to stay after just docking on the other side of Lake Calenhad. An overlook of a valley, perched on the shallower end of a mountain range. It would be the last hurdle before a series of trails which would take them to the Frostbacks. They were so close,

After supper, Sera and Olivia had taken to huddling by the fire. Dorian, unaccustomed to Fereldan chill both clothing and opinion, retired soon after picking through the food and voicing his critiques. Side-by-side with blankets wrapped around them, they looked too stoic and mature for their typical attitude. Then, Sera burped again, and made Olivia giggle. And all was well.

“That stinks, you know,” Olivia muttered, tightening the wool around her shoulders and lowering her nose.

“I know,” Sera replied, “I don’t do it cuz is smells like flowers.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because...because I have to. It’s burpin, right? Can’t help that.”

Olivia shrugged. “I don’t suppose, no. My Mother used to tell me to hold my breath when I ate so that I did not inspire indigestion, though.”

“‘Inspire indigdge’--what kind of root was your Mum on?”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough.”

She did have a point. While Sera contemplated the realities of indigestion, the Inquisitor's eyes wandered over to the clearing and thin tree line that separated the ground from the overlook. There, without a doubt, she would find Cassandra if she went looking. Yesterday she didn’t have half the guts, but after more than a day of no talking or addressing one another, she was itching for something. Anything that would give her hope to believe things would be alright.

“You worried ‘bout her,” Sera said rather than ask. She didn’t have to wonder, it was all over Olivia’s face.

“I…” Olivia stuttered, holding her arms close to her chest, “I am.”

“Got reason to, after all. That was some shit mess. Daniel something or other? That’s a terrible way to go.”

“Yes...yes it is.” Olivia was more and more distant in mind as the fresh memories revived themselves yet again. Maybe it was the stress, or being so spread thin at Skyhold in the previous weeks, but she couldn’t help but spew her emotions onto everything. It was foreign territory.

“Liv,” Sera nudged her in the shoulder, “just go get her, alright? You’re gonna start whinin’ like a pup with that face.”

“Agh! I do not have a puppy f--”

“You have a puppy face.”

They stared each other down for a brief few seconds, but Olivia lost the battle swiftly. She rocked her head back against the bench they were squatted by and closed her eyes.

“You know, Sera, I never properly said thank you for helping me with the girls.”

A thought and a promise she had made to herself but somehow let slip every time. Being grateful to all of her people and not just the few or the most noisy. Underneath all the drama with Theia, Veronica, and the conflict with Leliana, it was easy to forget the people who brought nothing but willingness to help. But, Sera was never one for mushy stuff. Well, at least when it wasn’t on her terms. She fidgeted a bit and elbowed Olivia again in the ribs, more forcefully that time.

“Don’t mention it. Well, do mention it, I hear Varric is writing a book or something about us.”

Olivia chuckled. “Fair enough. I am still in your debt. Let me know next time you want to stick honey to the bottom of Cullen’s desk chair.”

A sly grin grew on Sera’s face as she hugged her knees closer. “Heh, the man doesn’t sit.”

With a final admittance of laughter, Olivia stood up and separated herself from the fire and her friend. Walking out towards the overlook was like walking into battle, the way it made her heart start to flutter and blood course a bit faster. She was under-armed and under-prepared -- or was that just the nevers spinning lies? Looking at one of the main tents with a table meant for maps and the like, there was a tall bottle of port wine left out. One would assume it was an “apply as needed” resource. She went and grabbed it as a last minute save. Cassandra was right: she was always propositioning conversations with some kind of fruit, or food, or something.

The path was uneven, the snow and mud coagulated and half-frozen in the cold. She dug her heels in with ever step -- a clutz was a clutz, but rarely did they never learn from their weaknesses. Eventually she saw the figure she had been searching for, on the edge of the overlook cliff sitting on a large but short boulder beside a looming tree. Beyond her, the white and grey valley draped with snow provided little comfort.

She stopped several yards behind her, holding the bottle in both her hands. She rolled off her blanket and hooked it over her forearm.

“You know, next time you call for a mission to hunt down people in the Fereldan wilderness, maybe save it for the spring.”

A sound of a book snapping shut as Cassandra jerked her head up, over her shoulder with sensitive vigilance. She was about to get up off the boulder but Olivia waved her hand at her.

“Inq--” Cassandra tried, before clearing her throat. “You overestimate Ferelden’s variety in climate.”

“Maybe I do,” Olivia stepped closer until she was beside the boulder a few feet away. She looked out at the view, taking in the same unremarkable scenery they had seen for days.

Cassandra eyed her up and down. “What on Earth are you doing?”

“I...I thought maybe you could use a break from whatever it is you are doing.”

“I am fine. I am…” she gazed down at the tome in her lap, her temples tensing.

“...Fine?” Olivia finished her claim, holding out the bottle. They both knew and abused that word too much for it to be a passable facade with one another.

With a sigh Cassandra took the bottle by the neck as she did all matters and set the tome off to the side. She paused before chugging her first gulp, but did not stop herself. It was the first time Olivia had ever seen her consume alcohol readily and as a coping mechanism. She looked out, noticing the luminosity of the moon over the mountains.

“Travels like these make me remember I used to be a runaway here,” she folded her arms and stepped out further towards the edge of the cliff.

“You got this far into Ferelden?”

Olivia smirked. “I have no idea. We had no maps, no way of knowing left from right except for the sun and the stars. Five young women from a Circle Tower don’t know a lot about navigation.”

Cassandra frowned, widening the gap between her knees and planting her elbows on either one. Leaning forward with the bottle in her left hand, she hung her head. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

She wasn’t herself. There wasn’t spirit to her sternness. She was tired, and she was letting it show. Cassandra Pentaghast never tired in body, though. This was fatigue of a different sort: the only kind someone like her could ever be susceptible to.

Trying a new approach, Olivia let her arms fall and walked over. Cassandra slid off to the right to make room for her, but only a bit. Just enough for her and no one or nothing else. She sat against the rock tall and close, hands sliding to between her own thighs.

“How bad is it?”

Cassandra remained curved forward over her knees, but she looked up and out towards the horizon. “I’m afraid I do not know enough yet to answer.”

“That has never stopped you before.”

“Inquisitor, please.”

Olivia bit her lip and tucked her chin. “I’m...I’m sorry.”

“Every time I open and begin to read I see his face. I see his face sniveling, sneering at me. At every Seeker he sent here to die. Taunting those who dare to care. It makes my stomach sick and I slam the book shut.” She hung her head again. “My endurance for the horrors of corruption is not what it once was.”

The most faithful and endurable person Olivia had ever known sounded the most defeated she had ever been. It took her breath away a little. She swallowed pitifully and kept her stare straight, her thighs pressing her hands together between them to resist the urge to touch her.

“I think--”

“I do not need to have this debate. Not now.” Cassandra pushed up from the boulder and walked forward. Her bottle hand fell to her side and swung with her gate slowly. “I know what you believe. You do not have to tell me.”

“...maybe I deserve that.”

Quiet admittance. Cassandra spun around at once, evidently surprised at the concession. Her face was saddening: sunken but still willing to fight if it got her a moment’s grace; her standing in breeches and a heavy coat with no armor was more eye-catching that what was appropriate considering the mood. The way the dark coat wool couldn’t match the depth of darkness in her hair, contrasted to her angular features lined by the moonlit snow around them. Olivia matched her eyes and raised a brow to disguise her morose wonder.

“What? Can I not admit to mistakes?”

Cassandra was about to say something quick but she bit her tongue, raising the bottle to her waist. “You may do whatever it is you wish. You make that abundantly clear.”

“It is a rare sight to see you not go after the fights I try to pick with you. Even more so what you look like when I do not pick them at all.”

“You choose now of all times to play with my nerves?”

Cassandra’s indictment only dug the hole deeper. Olivia sighed silently and looked away. They both did. Something was growing and choking her at the back of her throat to be said. To be honest with someone you respected was harder than killing a man you didn’t. She had to find something to side-step with, something to distract herself.

“I am just trying to cheer you up. You know, provide some distraction. I see now I am someone who is less capable of doing so being...you know, what I am.” A shoddy attempt at best.

Cassandra stared at her, not blinking or moving an inch. It was frightening to think she may have caught onto the spinning behind her eyes.

“I...appreciate it,” she gave in, shoulders loosening. She came back and set the bottle on the rock beside the tome, and her gaze lingered on it. Almost as if she had managed to forget its horrid existence until that moment. “Maybe I have been distant when I should..,when I should be more reasonable.”

Olivia followed her look and saw the tome again, the Seeker’s emblem carved into the washed hide cover. It was a thick and burdensome looking thing. To think he passed it onto her as an act of injury as much as tradition.

“Can I...hold it?” she asked without thinking. Ugh, she wants to be left alone, and I’m poking more. Dammit. Cassandra looked at her as if she asked to throw it across the cliff side -- but she corrected her fear, and blinked.

“I...I suppose…” she said, taking it into her hand and stepping towards her. Olivia reached with both her hands, mindful as ever and surprised she was allowing it so readily. As she took hold of the edge and spine, she felt the tug of Cassandra’s grip. She was resistant, and her eyes were on her like she were trusting an interrogated suspect. Olivia looked up at her one last time, assuring her it would not fall or disappear suddenly. At that, Cassandra let go finally, and the full weight fell into Olivia’s grasp.

She placed it atop her lap. It was as heavy as it looked. “And this is supposed to explain everything?”

Cassandra swallowed. “Yes.”

“...and thus justify everything he did? The demon, the murdering, the kidnapping?”

“Yes.” More acidic, more pained.

 _I believe that._ The Orders had all kinds of materials and stories to pull out their asses when putrid crimes had been done. There was nothing stopping this book from providing a step-by-step outline of why leaders were allowed to kill, purge, accost, and steal as much as they wished. Such was the nature of despotic powers. The Circles could convolute censure for just about everything under the sun with several days of deliberation and the right hands holding the right quills. Why would the Seekers or the Templars be any different? They inspired the Circles’ self-subjugation. Still, she couldn’t take her eyes off of it.

“Twenty years and this is all I have to look upon for what remains of everything I believed in,” Cassandra sat beside her again against the rock, folding her arms close to her chest. “After the Conclave I kept thinking that nothing worse could happen without...without intervention. Without some form of justice interfering. But it has only gotten worse. The Circles, the Templars, the Seekers. All that I pledged my life to uphold.”

Olivia rubbed her palm flat and slow across the coarse cover. “You know what I would say to that.”

A sigh. “Yes. I do.”

In a little less than Olivia’s entire lifetime, everything had come together and crumbled apart for Cassandra’s life. While she was being strapped and tied into her first ball-gowns, Cassandra was getting her ass handed to her in martial training. When Olivia sold herself out as a Mage, Cassandra was the Divine’s Right Hand in all things. Life had done a number on them both, spinning them in every direction but each other’s, until there was no detour remaining between them.

She leaned her shoulder into Cassandra’s a bit. “Well, at least you know now. At least...at least you can move forward. Make new plans, new possibilities.”

“I do not want new plans.” Cassandra admitted, a crack in her voice. “I want...I do not know what I want. Perhaps that is the problem. I have nothing to rely on for reason. Everything I was taught, everything...that Daniel was taught. He was my apprentice, and now…” she stopped to collect herself before a line was crossed. “I have to make this right.”

Olivia lowered her brow. “Why? It is not your crime, it was not your corruption that propelled them here.”

“That does not matter. What matters is that there are rules. Rules that men like Lucius think themselves above, but must answer to.”

“Rules built to their benefit, Cassandra. Rules they never answered to because their absolution was the custom and not the outlier.”

Cassandra leaned up, shoulders straightening. “That is not the way it is meant to be.”

“That is such bul--”

“Inquisitor.” Cassandra looked at her a hint of anger in her now. “You mus--”

“No. No, no,” Olivia interrupted her in return. “I’m not about to sit here and listen to you tether yourself to the sinking boat again.” Olivia slammed the tome against her lap, something Cassandra visibly disapproved of in the way her face sunk.

“You have come all this way to see the truth, and now you want to shelve it again.”

“I want to bring it into the light and recover what good was lost. That is not erasing anything that happened, nor is it my wish to do so.”

Olivia groaned, shaking her head as she looked away. Her temper simmered restlessly on her tongue. Once again, she tightened her resentful grip on the tome, and once again she noticed Cassandra taking insecure interest in it.

“Cassandra, I can feel your anxiety from here,” she tilted her chin, seeing the nervousness in her eyes. “Do you not like me having this in my hands?”

“No, I...yes...ugh,” Cassandra bent forward and rubbed her face in her hands. Maybe Olivia wasn’t the only one choking on feelings unshared. “It is...complicated. I have lost much. Forgive me.”

“Do you not trust me?”

“Inquisitor...”

Olivia let out a laugh, tilting her head back and smiling with a fed up attitude. She hoist the book up to her chest level flat, her hands holding it like a platter. “Cassandra, I hold a book that could recount a complete ledger and explanation of centuries of brutalities and violence against my people. Against people unlike me but just as tortured. I hold a book that no eyes are supposed to see but those that lead your Order. I could--”

“Yes, and I know you despise everything it represents, and that you were right,” Cassandra hissed, snatching the tome from her and launching herself off the rock. She paced fast, tome in a death grip. “You were right and you want to gloat about it. All your cynicism is vindicated. You have won. Just go and leave me be.”

A horrific hush took hold. Olivia let go of what little air she had left in her chest and held tight. Nothing hurt like being pushed out of the sunlight you had forgotten was there to keep you warm when you wanted it.

“Cassandra…”

“Just go.”

None of it mattered anymore. None of it. Olivia stood up, moving to take the blanket back but rethinking the choice. Instead she left it, and stepped towards her just enough to inspire Cassandra’s side-eyeing glare of suspicion as she came around to face her. It only emboldened the Inquisitor to come forward as she held out her gloved hands, palms flat and dirtied.

“Will reducing me to a Mage with audacity to kill help your grief and shame feel any better? Even when these hands have done nothing but bleed for you and the cause you believe in?” The hands that rubbed cherry juice from your cheek, that held onto your arm and made promises to you, that want nothing more than to hold you now and tell you you’re being an idiot but that’s okay, because you have a right to be.

Cassandra stood her ground and looked down at the tome. Or through it. She couldn’t be sure.

“How much will be enough for you before you see, if you came to me and asked for me to help you rebuild the Seekers from the ground up, from bedrock to pillar, tile to shingle, that I would curse your name and grab a hammer? How much?! Was following you up the mountain towards a break in the sky not enough? Following you through the snow and becoming Inquisitor? Leading an army, fighting both you and Cullen’s paranoid apathy for my people and then trusting you with my life?! How much?! Going across the Fereldan wilderness in the dead of winter so that you could know what remained of the Order that raised you, the Order that butchered Mages since days of old? After you treated me like a pariah for no good reason for weeks?! How fucking much!?”

Her words slurred and ebbed as tears collected and fell from her eyes. There was no more disguises to wear, no more masks to grab and attach to her face. She realized it along with Cassandra as the words poured from her suppressed, secretive heart, and their eyes locked on each other.

“How do you think it feels knowing so many Mages look to me to be brave and lead them to revolution, and there is one person I’d follow to the edge of the sea just so they could keep faith in the old ways? I mourn for you, Cassandra. I know this all means everything to you, and who you are. For a moment back there I swear I could feel your anger and your pain in my own soul. But if you think for a moment that you owe me anything less than...than respect, a-and...and trust, while I am out here freezing my tits off to make sure you get a laugh in before hitting the cot tonight, then I hope that tome gets thrown off that cliff and trampled and...and into mud!"

Cassandra froze looking upon the tome, not daring to look her in the eyes while she gave her testimony. Her yelling, her avarice, it could humble Emperors. Tears and red discolored Olivia’s face in the freezing air as she huffed steam from her mouth agape.

“Forgive me," Cassandra offered, still as unyielding as stone. 

Olivia spat. “I forgave you before you even said a word, and I’ll hate myself for it. If you’re going to let this consume your desires, fine. If you’re going to let war and the Seekers, or...or the fucking Chantry have you, fine. I will give you my blessing and choke on the wine every night while I wish I could go back to the night in Montsimmard so I could…so that I could…”

Cassandra looked up, brows pressed together and lips pursed as if she had heard a child cry out. “So you could what?”

Olivia’s vision blurred and her eyes closed, her face contorting with a wave of crying. She rolled her lips tight, putting the side of her hand to her nose. A sharp gasp, and it stung. It stung so much.

“So...so I c-could…” she said, brittle and broken. “You weren’t there. You weren’t there, and you aren’t going to be there now.”

“Don’t tell me what I am going to do,” Cassandra insisted, coming forward and tossing the tome onto the rock. Its sharp gravely landing made Olivia jump as she backed away. "So you could do what?"

“No! Don’t you dare,” Olivia growled, “don’t.”

“Oli--”

“NO!”

Olivia stepped back and waved her hand from one side of her to the other, and out of the darkness fire sprouted and grew in a line between them. It spread and stretched on either side until it enclosed Cassandra in a semicircle, giving Olivia the the escape route. It raised like a wall to the height of their hips, furious and bright.

Cassandra quaked and backed away. She had nothing but knives and will to match. Looking to either end, she frowned and returned her eyes to Olivia, her red face all the more inflamed.

“You think this would stop me?” the Seeker asked simply, matter-of-fact, like they had been calmly discussing things. Without waiting, Cassandra crossed the threshold of fire. All at once she was standing in front of her, two steps away, and not a hair more. With her traversal, the fire went out as if blown like a candle quick. It was breathtaking. Somewhere far away and irrelevant to where they were in the world, there was a book on Mage elementals. A book with a passage in some chapter in some section, which discussed the extent of Mages’ abilities to selectively burn. A book Olivia had studied and annotated, cut her teeth on, lived by. Now, realizing that there would never come a day where she would seek to burn Cassandra even as she ignited a wall of furious fire between them, the book could kiss her ass.

“So you could do what?” Cassandra repeated, a light glistening of sweat showing on her head and around her eyes as she stood with the heat at her back.

Olivia inhaled, her chest compressed as if the boulder had rolled on top of her. She blinked fast, fighting the urge to faint. In her semblance of sense she smiled softly.

“So that I could tell you that it has always been, and will always be you. Always...always you. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know how I could ever watch you walk away from me even though I am the farthest from the person you were meant to find. Someone who loves you, and...and reads you poetry, and kisses your feet, and tells you you’re beautiful like a song or something...something kiss-ass like that. Someone who knows how to love a woman like you.”

"You think all I want is someone to kiss my feet and read poetry?" Cassandra tilted her head, a brow furrowed. 

"I...you know," Olivia exhaled sharp, "I don't know. You act like it."

"I 'act' like it?"

"Oh, don't make me disembowel myself, Cassandra. Admitting this already makes me want to stick myself with my staff blade. I just..." Olivia rubbed her face with her hands, starting from her nose and pressing outward to wipe away the tears that had overstayed their welcome. "The bottom line is I'm not the person you were meant to end up with. I have known that...and...and I that know.."

Cassandra smirked dryly and stepped forward, coming in close like she was about to embrace and kiss her. Like some romance serial, going against Olivia's entire argument. But no, instead she just reached a hand around to the side of Olivia's belt. Their chests were within inches of each other as Cassandra stared into her eyes, finding and removing Olivia's harvesting knife without so much as checking to see if she was in the right spot. She knew where to find it. She knew. And when she had it, she held it between them, blade tip facing up towards the sky. 

"...You know that it has always been you, as well?"

Olivia looked at the knife, confounded for a brief few seconds. Then, it all clicked.

"...The...the knife..."

Cassandra held back a chuckle in her throat. "If it is anything you have taught me, Olivia, it is that you cannot ask for the love you are not willing to give...and that I cannot undo what fate insists upon." 

Olivia's lips parted as her eyes got lost in the blade between them. "But...but I do not know how to," she muttered, voice cracking.

Cassandra raised her hand to her cheek and held it so gently, so lovingly, not even death could have promised such a relief in a touch. In her eyes was everything. No description or scripture could ever possibly describe the multitudes. The memory of Cassandra's face that morning in the tent came to life in her mind's eye. After having found it stuck in the wood, propped and ready for her to find without credit or fame to the rescuer. The way Cassandra grinned, smug but humble as Olivia's entire day was made in that one small moment. That she was willing to do something so kind even during a time when they hated each other. The softening, the dominoes falling one by one, it had all started that day without her knowing. That was how Cassandra had managed to slip past her walls and fortifications and into her heart's inner sanctuary. 

Sweetening the pot, Cassandra came closer and pressed her forehead to hers. Olivia's hands went warm, as the the space behind her eyes. Her magic was growing just as invigorated with the uncharted territory as she was. She closed her eyes and leaned into her. For a split moment she had never become Inquisitor, and the sky had never broken open. And yet it had, and somehow, she was feeling thankful for it. Thankful and cursed. 

"I...I can't have you," Olivia whispered. "I can't." She took a breath, snagging every last second she could of the moment. She opened her eyes, bright enough to where she could see their glow on Cassandra's face. Placing a hand on the one Cassandra held to her cheek, she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to her gloved palm. A hushed act of reckoning. Then, she pulled it away. “I am not going to cure you or replace what you have lost,” she whispered. “And I won’t dare take advantage of your grief anymore than I already have. This isn’t...it isn’t appropriate.” She swallowed hard and let the deep and entrenched hunger she had for her taste go down with her spit. She took the knife back and held her thumb against the blade's edge. 

Cassandra tilted back, their entwined hands falling between them. In her expression, Olivia could see she understood and agreed, as much of a struggle as it was not to give in. Cassandra would have made herself a hypocrite to insist that Olivia forget who she was expected to be. And that would always be what haunted them. 

After a moment of staring into each other’s eyes, Olivia took a breath and looked down. “I should...I should--”

“Return to camp. I know.”

Olivia couldn’t believe her eyes. From tension, to argument, to standoff, to softness. All in the span of what felt like a single breath. But there she was: Cassandra, as she always was, looking sore and tired but not entirely lost as she was before. She began her walk backwards, arms loose at her sides, cheeks red but from embarrassment rather than sorrow.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra, out of the blue and through the dark. Olivia turned as quick as a pin to see her still standing there, staring after her.

“Yes?” 

"If I asked you not to go, would you finally listen?" A flicker of hope for something in her eyes and her face. The first she had seen in her in days. To know it was for her, for her existence, felt more powerful than anything an anchor or mana could provide. But it was futile: a fancy between two women who knew better. Olivia grinned softly, reaching and placing her own hand now to Cassandra's face. The first time she had ever touched her so. Her thumb rubbed softly against the scar beside her mouth. It was as beautifully imperfect as she was, and only better to feel. Cassandra's eyes looked soft and sweet as honey in their light, her head leaning into her hand. It was an honor.

“Goodnight, Seeker. Be safe,” she grinned, backing away and cradling her arms across her chest and turning around. 

Cassandra nodded, hands falling behind her waist. Back into formation, back into what she was good at. And she was remarkable, and good, and unforgettable. And it would be more agonizing than it ever had been to leave her side. Olivia would have to trust her to manage, to weather without her being there to seduce the situation into something else it could not be. 

Scorned by her own restraint, she bit down on the inside of her lip. She stepped into the footprints she had made on the way there: footfalls she could trust, even as her heart felt ready to sprout wings and escape her chest. Even in the dread of it all, she could not help but feel like levitating into the forest like a spirit and never returning. Too jaded for life, and too besotted for death. That was the way she made her feel.  
But Olivia knew the things she would be defenseless for, and one of them was a night alone in the dark with Cassandra and a bottle of wine. The escape from the world and their responsibilities would have been too potent. The woman for whom fantasies pervaded her actions could not grant herself the one that would have been purely for her own sake. 

The worst part was that she had known. She had known, and she would know, that it was never as simple as hatred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 61 Chapters of slow burn. Thank you to everyone who's rode along (and are still riding along) for this long, arduous, painstaking process of character development. I honestly did not plan things to climax here, but Olivia and Cass have a mind of their own at this point. And, there is so much more to be seen and heard from them besides this.


	62. The Landslide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back from abroad and eager to return to work, Olivia is once again interrupted by a call to recognize long-simmering heat between her and Veronica. This time, it is settled by an old trick of friends. Much to her chagrin, standing face-to-face with her friend makes her see more connected dots than otherwise. Roslyn is also sick of everyone's shit.

_I don’t have loved ones to speak of. My family is mostly gone, I was sent to an orphanage as an infant. Here at Ostwick, I have the only life I have ever known. I’m not the most talented Mage, but I get by. I like fire and the elements; I like learning how to control it better, and use it for different tasks that could help people. I don’t want to be a healer, though. They get the shit end of things all the time._

_The only thing that makes me happier than most are my friends. We all have different circumstances but we have found comfort within each other. There’s things we have in common, despite it all. One, we’re all Mages, obviously. We also all have unfortunate stories from home. That is probably due to the Mage part, though._

_There’s Roslyn. She likes to punch things more than enchant, but she’s learning. She is funny, and likes to tell jokes. They say she comes from a clan of barbarians and she doesn’t correct them. I think she likes it that way. She is the best to have around when you need someone to cheer your spirits up or distract you from your sorrows._

_Then there’s Naomi. She’s the newest one in our bunch, mostly because they don’t let her wander amongst us for very long. They won’t tell us why she walks around with at least two Templars on guard around her, just that she’s not to be trifled with. At least we’re allowed to make her laugh, you know? She deserves that. She likes to listen to us, and gives good advice._

_Gem, of course. Or, her name is Olivia, we just call her Gem. She’s the tiniest but oldest of us, and people forget that. Feisty but she doesn’t let it show -- says she has better things to do than make trouble. Just experiments and the occasional accidental explosion. She’ll back you up when you need it. She is also wicked smart, smarter than all of us, I think. The best Orlesian I know, but that bar is pretty low._

_Then there’s my oldest friend out of them, Theia. We’ve been at the hip since she showed up, though it was to fight and punch at first. She called me a name they got for Fereldans back in the Marches, and I told her she could shove it in her cobwebbed hair and choke on it. We’ve been getting even with each other ever since. I like her...I like her a lot. She knows me best, and I don’t want to lose her._

_I know they sound odd, and kind of mad, but they’re all I have. Please do not transfer me. I have a lot to keep me here and busy. I have a lot to worry about now, and I do not want to lose it. Thank you kindly._

_\-- A handwritten plea, copied and filed within the Circle records in Kirkwall. Signed by an Apprentice, but part of the page was burned before it was recovered. Date appears to be 9:33 Dragon._

\--

An expedient return ensured that the Inquisitor and her allies rode through the gates within two days of Annum, meaning they would get to observe at least one annual holiday from the relative sanctuary of Skyhold. Given the state of worldly affairs, celebrating an occasion like the New Year felt ironic on the nerves of a woman tasked with ensuring it wouldn’t be the last.

When she came upon her desk for the first time in two weeks, the predicted build-up of bureaucracy awaited her like all the other times: reports, copies, orders to sign-off, the gauntlet. As painful as it was to endure at first, nothing compared to the duress inspired by a crinkled up note wedged between to official documents. Ripped off a whole page, with one word that was folded before the ink could dry properly:

“bâton de crack”

Oh, fuck this. The room went hot and then cold as her grip on the paper became deadly. She swore under her breath,, slamming the stack of papers in her hand onto the table and shooting out of her chair. It all raced past her in forgettable and blurry colors: the passage down the stairs, through the doors, more stairs, a cold draft of the window. The Great Hall rug under her feet. The midday sunshine cresting over the mountain clouds. More blasted stairs -- why did they need so many stairs? Dirt and mud sinking her heels. The armory door in the corner wall that had just been repaired and oiled so it wouldn’t creak like a man kicked in the gut.

The long room had walls decked and stocked with weapons -- swords, spears, shields, the works, all organized and catalogued inch for inch. In the middle were long tables end-to-end running the length of the room as far as the opposite wall. Perfect for restocking, counting, cleaning, general usage. Down the way a pile of longswords was awaiting polishing. Scut work, but when done well, vital work. Two women stood beside each other talking, one with ember red hair tied back, the other dark brown -- almost black if you had no source of light to shine on the mahogany undertones.

Olivia bit down on her tongue and stomped towards them.

“vous prétendez parler ma langue de chienne pour faire quoi!?” she hissed, reducing the note to ash in her fist that she wielded beside her head.

Veronica and Roslyn looked up, mouths open and eyes wide, at the angrily yelling blonde coming at them. Roslyn immediately turned to face her, shoulder stepping in front of Veronica instinctively.

“Olivia, what in the wor--”

“It’s alright, Lyn,” Veronica said as she grabbed her by the shoulder.

“No, it is not alright!” Olivia rebuked, her accent thick and out from its hiding place, “how dare you!?”

“How dare she what?” Roslyn shook her head, "Veronica, what did you do?”

“I...I pulled the crack stick.”

Roslyn turned back, chin tucking against her shoulder. Her brow raised, and the mystery as to what Olivia was going rabid for died.

“Ro, are you fucking kidding me?” she asked, hands going to her hips. “We aren’t children anymore!”

“We didn’t do the sticks because we were children,” Veronica countered, tossing the sheathed swords she had her arms onto the table. The loud and assertive act only turned up the heat on Olivia’s boiling blood. If it weren’t for the table between them -- which could be destroyed with a flick of her finger -- she would be bee-lining it for her.

“Then what for?” Lyn asked again, jaw tensed. “You can’t expect Liv to be able to play along.”

“We pulled the sticks when there was bad blood between us. We pulled them to settle the score like women, not continue whining and sulking like Theia wants to do.”

Olivia slammed her palm onto the table to dump the ashen remains of the note on the wood. Leaning forward, she pointed her finger towards her chest. “I have settled it already. You have consequences to your mistakes. End of story.”

Veronica folded her arms. “I have blood to rid, too, Gem.”

“You don’t have shit against me. Friends who leave friends to die don’t get to pull the ‘hurt feelings’ card.”

“I’m not referring to the Conclave crapshoot. I’m talkin’ about now, talking about your tossing me around like a misbehaved pet. You won’t talk to me but you’ll invite Theia to have dinner up in your room? What kind of shit is that?!”

“It wasn’t like that, you...you--agh! vous imbécile,” Olivia turned away and paced, arms flying above her head. Fed up with the nonsense already. Was there to be no day at Skyhold where she wouldn’t have to deal with Veronica, or Theia, or both trying to wax poetic about their collective upbringings?

Roslyn sighed as they both stewed, glancing between their sides of the table. “You’re a piece of work.”

“I’m a piece of work, but I’m not a coward,” Veronica replied. “Theia can wait for her chance to redeem herself, I’m not gonna sit around with a thorn in my side and wonder why it fucking hurts.”

“Oh, how noble of you,” Olivia growled as she pivoted on her hip, staring her down. “I sob at night about the grave injustices done onto you and your upstanding integrity.”

“If you do, then let’s take it outside and pull the sticks, Gem. Once and for all,” Ro came forward against the edge of the table. She pressed her fist onto the table, thumb side up. “Come on, you know the promise.”

Roslyn rolled her eyes. “Maker’s breath. I need new friends.”

But Lyn, nor Veronica had to finish that statement. The rest of it echoed in her mind: if a Fox refused the sticks calling card, they’d consent to being the bad guy. The boogeyman. All required apology or penance was thus null and void, and the other party could carry on no matter the injury they caused them. It was a way of holding them both accountable, and forcing the hard stuff to be swallowed. It was a rough game of patched up honor between kids, and had grown into a bargaining chip for the friendships of women.

Olivia wanted nothing more than to spit at the ground and walk off, back to her place on high behind her doors and banners. But nothing would gnaw at her more petulantly than the knowledge that she backed off of one of the few codes between them as friends, thus nullifying her claim to anger. A technicality that would embed itself in her ego like a tick hungry for first blood.

She sucked on her teeth, looking down at the ground to conjure a gumption. Thoughts were racing in Orlesian, and that was never a good self-awareness sign.

Veronica eyed her, mouth rounding onto one side of her face. Oh, that bitch. She knew.

“Get out that door before I kick your ass through it.” If it was gonna happen, it was gonna happen right. Powers preserve her should she lose her mind and the Inquisition it out a leader because she couldn’t keep her friends in line.

“Ugh! Come on! I want to do my job, not scavenge for sticks!” Roslyn whined, slouching and dragging her feet after Olivia’s adamant stomping. “Veronica, shove it up yours next time, alright?”

Veronica didn’t utter a word, though. Coming around and catching up to Olivia but not getting too close for comfort, she was just as nailed into the challenge as her friend, the Inquisitor had become.

\--

Few things were holier in sanction that the crack stick. A simple configuration by four teenagers -- predating Naomi’s addition to the group -- the rules were straightforward but sacrosanct: The offending parties held one long stick between each other with both hands on opposite ends. The stick had to be long and thick enough to provide distance between them, but not so much: you wouldn’t want it turning into a weapon. In the Circle, they would use a sparring staff the teachers would have on hand to teach hand-to-hand combat defense. In the wild, it was anything they could find on the ground.

The object was not to fight or strike, but the contrary: two Mages stuck in their anger would have to expose their hands -- at times the most magically expressive parts of their body -- to a simple stick of wood. Meanwhile, they would have to has out whatever injustice was between them. You lost by doing one of three things: by letting your anger surge to the point where your magic destroyed your part of the stick, by letting go of it, or breaking the one unique rule every Fox had for the game. The last rule mostly consisted of things people were not allowed to say or mention about the other: memories too painful, or insults too deep.

Teenagers could respect such boundaries. Adults, well, time would show.

They had marched themselves out of Skyhold entirely, down to the grove east of the front gates. The Inquisitor could not afford to have a public brawl against her name, or the name of Mages, at such a precarious time. Only she, Veronica, and Roslyn were invited along in the stampede of righteous wrath. After ten minutes of Roslyn, the neutral party, scrounging around for a proper stick in the woods while spitting every curse she could think of, she came back with the bounty: a long, fallen section of a branch, limbs burnt off most likely by her own hand in a fit of cathartic burning. She walked up to Veronica and shoved it against her chest.

Veronica took hold of her chosen end and turned toward Olivia, who had been circling in the grass the entire time they waited. Facing each other, there was nothing left but the score to settle. Olivia ripped off her black gloves and tossed them to the ground. Wiping her brow, she came around to the opposite end of the branch. Veronica held it level between their chests as much as their height difference could afford. While she had a sturdy overhand grip, Olivia clasped underhand, as if holding a bestowed blade. Gripping once and for all she closed her eyes and readied herself.

Roslyn stood a couple yards away, locking her legs in a wide stance and folding her arms. “Alright, ladies. Crack it.” The official start.

“Ugh, this is so stupid,” Olivia groaned, tilting her head back. “If anyone sees me playing along with your antics I’m going to get walloped by Josephine and Leliana.”

“Well, at least you’ll know how to defend yourself instead of letting someone else fend off your punches for you,” Veronica spat back, glaring across the wood between them.

Olivia’s eyes widened. “You dare insult me about my defenselessness again when the last time you did so it was to justify abandoning me to die?!”

“I didn’t leave you to die and you know it!”

“Bullshit! You did, you piece of--” Olivia bit down. Her mana was crackling beneath her palms and down the skin of her forearms. Nothing would be easier than cracking and burning the stick into ash in the matter of two breaths. Nothing. Breathing through her nose, she looked ahead of her out onto the snowed-in countryside.

“What am I supposed to make of you removing my weapons and leaving me in a closet with the threat that if I left, you’d leave me to be struck down? That you were talking story to pass the time?”

Veronica was sucking on one side of her mouth, her eyes a steely color of blue grey in the cold overcast light. “I never said what I did was right.”

“You never said it was wrong, either.”

“I did. You just wouldn’t take it easy. You always want things to be hard, Olivia. Ever since you showed up at Ostwick. You punished yourself to get something to cry about, and you still do it, even with all you have going on.”

Olivia raised a brow, glancing through her periphery. “Your self-sufficient rough talk won’t get you anywhere, Ro. You have always had disdain for the person you thought I was, and you never got over it, even when time after time I was nothing but a friend to you!”

“You were a friend to me like a beggar is to a stray dog: caught with the scraps and nothing to better to do”

“That is not true.”

“And what makes it a lie?”

Olivia choked back a gasp. It was too early to cry, too early to break down. The premise of the game was to repent strong emotions, to not give into tirades or tantrums. That was what made it torture, and in turn what led to quick resolution. Mages hated temperance as a prescription, even if they did not admit it.

The grass cracked underneath Roslyn’s boots as she swayed her weight from side to side. “Gem, come on now. Don’t give up.” Her encouragement helped, but the fact that she needed it so soon was disparaging.

“Veronica,” Olivia brittly continued, “why have you always rejected me? Why? What did I ever do to you but exist? We were like sisters at a time when we needed it. Not for pity, or for charity. You were my sister and I was yours. Why do you sneer at that?”

Veronica swallowed and looked away, tucking her chin low. The tension across the wood braced stronger, and the orbiting energies between them changed. Olivia’s mana interacted with Ro’s, countering its increased angst with sorrow. It was a toxic mixture for anyone.

“I didn’t sneer unless I was sneered at,” she offered back. Not good enough.

“Really? When did I strike the first blow then?”

“That doesn’t matter, the--”

“It does! It matters! Say it!”

“No, what matters is--”

“Veronica I swear by that blasted Maker wherever the fuck he is that I will break this stick and walk away forever if you do not cut the fat off your self-pity and get to the bone.”

The air went still. Olivia would concede if it meant that Veronica’s ass would be shown for instigating and being shitty at following through on it. It would be worth it. Worth the breakdown. Or would it?

“I…” Veronica’s voice cracked. She bit her lip and looked up. “I just…”

“It all goes back to Theia, doesn’t it.”

The thorn that had been in their sides for years. The one that had started as a love, as a partiality, that had grown sickening limbs. Veronica’s brow lowered as she closed her eyes, stiff like she was being faced with a frigid wind.

Olivia shook her head slow, taking a breath. “Theia. You loved her, you loved her so much. You loved her from the start, before love was love. Before jealousy was jealousy. You loved her, and then I came along, and you couldn’t get out of your own way. Not for years, even when we grew up. You saw...you saw how happy she was. All those girls...all those trysts…”

“Stop.”

“You couldn’t make yourself step forward and over the line so you watched her be loved by women you thought would be bet--”

“Stop it!”

“Veronica!” Roslyn warned from afar. “Don’t do it!”

Olivia looked down at the stick. Subtle smoke was seeping through from between Veronica’s fingers, her knuckles white with pressure. A moment, and Veronica raised her chin and inhaled, all the while Olivia couldn’t take her eyes off of her. She looked like cracking alabaster, too burdened by the weight of its own. She signed up for this, readily.

“Veronica, just admit it. Just say it, once and for all. Look at all it has put us through, all that we could have los--”

“I know bloody w-well we could have lost everything! We could have lost you. You don’t think I walk around knowing that? That when people smile, work, live here, and they turn their heads up to look at you with wonder and respect...that I could have been the one to make it all impossible before it even began? You all think I’m so simple, so crude, so heartless but I...I can’t...I can’t do this. I’m going mad.”

“You’re really so disgusted by having consequences to your actions when you have no idea how much of a privilege it is to have a chance. To have a chance to atone. You know how many people I have met and killed who fell onto the wrong side of the conflict? Who made fatal mistakes they would never have the chance to make right? You’re so stuck in your own head.”

“I’m not stuck in my head anymore than you are, and you know it. I wasn’t the one who Theia told she was leaving, and I wasn’t the one who decided against stopping her. You let her go, and for what? For what, Olivia?!”

“Because you broke her heart!”

Once again stalemate as both women looked away. Olivia’s eyes began to sting with the winter air falling against the collecting tears in her eyes. She hadn’t cried since that night with Cassandra, and she had cried so long after she walked away she thought herself and embodied drought. Crying was not her forte. But with those certain people in her life, it was her one curse.

“You broke her heart, and she couldn’t stomach it anymore. And you know what the worst part is? You want to know?” Olivia cracked, glancing back at her with the remaining courage she had. “I think you knew. I think you knew what you did. And you hated me, hated that I didn’t love her the way you thought I should. You used me for years, you depended on me to love her better so you didn’t have to try. You coward.”

“Don’t you dare call me that!”

“You’re a fucking coward!” Olivia’s spit hurled out of her mouth as she yelled. “You have always been loved!” she jerked the stick between them once. “You have been loved and you have squandered it! For what? For what, Veronica?”

Veronica looked up and locked her eyes to hers. “I was protecting her!”

“You weren’t protecting anyone! You strung her along, you knew she loved you and you turned away at every chance you had to honor it! You cannot let people love you and rely on you, you can’t...you can’t just let them be around and let them feel safe with you and…and d-do that to them! You gotta love them back! It’s not fair!”

Olivia’s throat was like fire, crackling and breaking apart until nothing would be left untouched. In Veronica’s eyes she saw herself, both literally and in essence. It was the most devastating edge of the world to stand on: hating your friend for what they denied themselves, and knowing you were getting away with it every damn day of your life. In the back of her mind, Veronica’s seventeen-year-old voice laughed and echoed. Her sweet, clumsy laughter, as she pulled her in and hugged her from behind, enveloping her.

 _Oil and water, you and I! As it has been, and always shall be!_ She was singing off-key. She was off-key more times than she was anything else. Veronica, off key and off kilter. One of a kind. The first tear fell, and Olivia blinked it away.

“Veronica, I can’t do this,” she grumbled. She shook her head fast, back and forth losing sight of everything but the blurs of colors they created. Gripping down on the stick, she flared her pyromancy and snapped the stick clean, dicing with heat and them reducing what remained in her hands to dust.

Veronica gasped, mouth agape as she held the stick all alone. Olivia stepped back and rubbed her hands anxiously on the sides of her breeches.

“I can’t...I can’t just have us brutalize one another.”

“We aren’t brutalizing one another, we’re talking it out.”

“No, we aren’t. This isn’t...this isn’t like stealing the last stashed biscuit from under the other’s pillow or kissing the girl the other had a crush on. It isn’t...it isn’t like that. It won’t ever be.”

Veronica tossed the stick to the ground, chest heaving higher and higher as her breathing lost more control. This wasn’t the resolution she wanted, and if it was anything Veronica hated, it was taking a risk and having no reward for it.

“You’re right. I know that. I will always have the stain of letting you almost die,” she admitted, a grim and lifeless monotone to her breath. “I won’t ever live it down, or prove that I was any different. I shouldn't live it down.”

Roslyn came closer, hands falling. “That is not true.”

“Yes it is! I will always have this,” Veronica held her palms out, dirtied from holding and partially smoking the stick, “I will always be the one who breaks things. I don’t have anything to bring, I’m just here, and I will always be stuck. You could have died and the last thing you’d know was your friend calling you a whore and running off. I shamed myself and I shamed all of you. I made the kind of mistake people never live down.”

Olivia’s heart beat faster, so much so they rattled her ear drums. There was so much anger. So much wanting of the way things were. One word, if only she could find one word, to bring them back to how it was: strained, but stalwart. Breaking at the seams, but not quite severed. It would be wonderful and terrible, and their youth would consume more and more of them.

But if she walked away, if she gave up on account of that, she could also lose them to the evils they faced. To Corypheus, to his movement, to the discord that pervaded every inch of the world they knew. The enmity that would most likely kill her before old age would ever had a chance to grow a shadow in her doorway.

Her brunette and sullen friend was tall but crumbling. Her hands, how she stared at them like they were abhorrent. Capable of unspeakable things. Olivia approached and took hold of one of them, pressing it between both of hers. Veronica, caught off guard, flinched and looked up. Still breathing heavy with the weight of sins.

More tears fell from Olivia’s eyes, but her expression was calm. Lucid, almost. “a little piece of me will always wonder why. Why you did what you did and why...why you just...why you couldn’t see. But...but I don’t know how long this world will keep me here, and you need to know,” she placed a hand on her shoulder, “I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want to have you as anything other than my friend, my...my s-sister. You were all I got, and for that little piece of me that will always wonder...there’s a piece that will always look at you and say ‘she’s all I got.’ But if you turn away from me again so help me I will shove this boot so far up your ass your tongue will be ram leather.”

Veronica had clearly reached her limit. Face contorting, she lowered her head into her free hand and started crying full out.

“Gem, I’m so sorry, I fucked it all up, I’ll never g-get...g-get it b-back,” she cried.

Olivia released the air from her chest and pulled her in, leaning onto her toes so that she could be the shoulder Veronica could cry on. One hand to the back of Ro’s head, the other around her shoulder.

“Oh, Ro,” she comforted as they swayed a bit from side-to-side, “it’s okay, it’s alright.”

“I-I h-hate her...I hate her…!”

“Shhh…”

“She’s...she’s moving on...why c-can’t I just...why d-did I do that..?”

“It’s okay not to know. I promise. You don’t have to know.”

Veronica clung to the shoulder of Olivia’s jacket. “I want to know! I want to know w-why…” she buried her head further into her shoulder. Too much to sustain on foot, Veronica gave way and fell down onto the ground where she stood. Instinctively Olivia followed her, crouching onto her knees and holding Veronica between them as she further crumpled into a ball of grief. Roslyn’s protective presence came nearer, but she did not disturb.

“Shh, shh, sh,” Olivia continued to whisper as she rubbed the back of Ro’s head. “It’s okay.” They continued like that, Veronica going quiet while she sobbed. It was one of four times Olivia had ever seen her do so: the first, when she was humiliated during a lesson and had her hair half-burnt from an accidental enchantment. The second, when she broke her arm in falling down the stairs only to find out it wouldn’t get her out of exams. Third, when she was almost lost to them forever, threatened with a transfer to Kirkwall for not being competitive enough in her studies. Seventeen and deemed unworthy, insubstantial, for fucking Ostwick of all places. Veronica was many things, but she was never insubstantial.

After a few minutes, she quieted down, and her shoulders stilled. Olivia pushed her hair out of her face and peered down her nose at her. Her eyes were still scrunched close, as if she wished to be done with the day and all the days after.

“You’re an ugly crier,” Olivia mumbled, stifling a giggle.

“Piss off, Imperial brat,” Veronica sniffled before turning onto the other cheek to face outward. “No one’s gonna love me. I’m such a mess.”

Roslyn from above them groaned with emotional nausea. “Too bad you got us, you asshole.”

Olivia looked up, exchanging a look of “take care” with her, but the sound of Veronica’s chuckling hit home. It wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t all torn apart.

“Lyn’s right. You got us, and maybe if you started treating us sweetly and ate dinner with us like a civilized woman, you’d know.” Olivia sat back on her tailbone, legs bent and spread. She freed Veronica from her grip and angled both elbows on her knees as the snow and dirt squished under her weight. Veronica continued to sit straight on her folded thighs, rubbing her face and gazing out at the wild.

“Ugh,” she sighed, “I know, I know, okay. I just...I can’t face Theia. Not after…”

“After the fight? I get it, but I’m sure she’s--”

“No, Olivia,” Veronica said through her hands. “It’s…it’s not just that.”

Olivia and Roslyn looked at each other, brows low and mouths pouting, before they returned to her. “Then what else is there? I have gotten all the reports of you two and your fighting.”

Veronica went silent. Something was harboring itself on her tongue. Something even she knew would be trouble to say. But, after all that had happened, the stomach for secrecy was a barren one.

“She’s...she’s caught eyes for the Ambassador. People have seen her talking sweet to her. The Mages are all gossiping about it. I can’t set foot into the tower without hearing about it, how pretty they are together, how charming she is. It makes me sick.”

Oh no. So, that is what weeks of on and off traveling and being a responsible leader got Olivia. Obviously Theia hadn’t forgotten all her tenets of Circle survival.

“I thought that was just Bridgette mouthing off,” Roslyn admitted, leaning onto one side. “I didn’t know it had caught wind so much.”

“Yeah, well, it has,” Veronica slouched.

Olivia sat forward, resisting the urge to set something on fire again. “It’s not gonna happen. Theia isn’t allowed to fraternize. If she crosses a line she’s going to know it. Josephine wouldn’t take her shit for a second.”

“Olivia, you and I both know how good she is. How easy she is on the eyes and ears,” Ro sniffled again as she rubbed her cheek on her sleeve. “If she likes her, its….it’s…”

“It’s insubordination and misconduct, Veronica. This is an Inquisition, not a Circle melodrama. If I have to live with a glowing green hand, Theia can keep her smalls laced.”

Roslyn snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Lyn’s cynicism was grading, but not without merit. For Theia, love and intrigue were like breathing: distractions from her needs to make something of herself. For what reason, no one could say for certain: not even the two women in the group who knew her best. But Olivia didn’t have time to implement an investigation into Theia’s sordid sexual escapades.

She growled with exasperation, falling back into the snow and making a human-shaped imprint in it. “Why did I decide to bring you all here?” she lamented, taking in the grey sky.

A moment’s pause, as if they would sincerely deliberate such a question. Then, of course, Roslyn:

“Well, it was nice to not be hostages anymore, you know. That was...that was neat.”

Veronica smirked. “They fed us better though, if you ask me.”

Swift and spiteful, Olivia lurched a leg up and kicked Veronica in the knee. Now was not the time. But, hearing her giggle and fidget was a comfort after all that drama. As the other two giggled and eased up, though, she couldn’t help but feel her backbone growing more and more calcified. Theia messing around was not a part of her design. It wasn’t going to be anything but trouble.

And, on top of that: Josephine deserved better. But that went without saying.

“I’’ll talk to her,” she concluded as she pulled herself out of the snow, shaking it from her hair and shoulders. “You have my word.”

Veronica rubbed her thigh, anxious still from the topic. “Don’t do anything brash, okay?”

“What, like go out to the forest and play crack stick with my friend when I’m supposed to be working?” Olivia smiled with a smartass glimmer in her eye. “Come on, let’s go. I’ve used my break time for the day.”

Roslyn reached both her arms out to them, lending a hand as both Olivia and Veronica got out of the snow and mud. Their clothes were a bit ruined, but such dilemmas were easy to remedy. Walking back from the grove meadow and seeing Skyhold’s stone in the distance through the trees, the notion of “lucky” was too benign of an explanation for how Olivia felt. She wasn’t lucky. She was damned, and she knew it. To spend anymore days not relishing in the small blessings she had managed to collect in her life would have been foolish. As they walked, she did something she hadn’t gotten the opportunity to in years: she wrapped her arm around Roslyn’s, all the while holding Veronica’s hand on her other side. A shape they had taken so many days as Apprentices and young Mages through halls and down corridors. A shape that was too fragile for runaways in the great unknown.

The crack stick had struck again. Resentment was a luxury she could not afford, even as she could not afford forgiveness either.

Olivia grinned and ran her hands through her ponytail of hair. “You know, it is a good thing you chose the stick and not a duel.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Because I would have kicked your ass.”

“Heh, maybe so. All those moves your paramour Cassandra teaches you, eh?”

Olivia groaned. “Roslyn!”

“I didn’t say anything! Swear! ...At least, recently.” 

"That would have broken Gem's rule, though: no teasing or shit-talking who she fucks or why." 

Olivia scoffed. "I didn't even remember that I made that rule. What was yours? Did I break it?" 

Veronica laughed. "No. Mine was no puns. After Roslyn talked in nothing but puns that one time we played the crack stick, remember?" 

Roslyn leaned into Olivia's shoulder, a mischievous expression she hid as she put her mouth to Olivia's ear. "Someone has a stick up their's..." 

"Roslyn!"


	63. Piper Blossoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of the new year, Olivia does her best to has an unremarkable of a routine as she can. Spending time with allies she has long missed in the middle of all her friends' tumult. First, with Solas, and then with her beloved Ambassador. Though nothing is inescapable, and with allies as keen and intuitive as hers, a break is not one of the things she stands to catch.

_An old book with studies long-rendered obsolete and out of touch, cover frayed at the edges and pages torn at some areas. Writing and ink stain the margins and cover binds mercilessly. One of the only legible, and perhaps most profound of them, is on the back of the cover:_

_"Recommended by a friend, with whom I regret I did not get the chance to discuss further."_

__  
\--

There was a time when she was terrified to speak to him. Not that he looked evil or menacing, just that he was so intimidating in his collected aloofness. When he had offered kindnesses and mentoring to her, it took weeks for her to stop stuttering on thanks. Much had changed, but even after the months, there was still a little stray piece of herself that would always feel uncomfortable around him. Too bad for her comfort had long died as a staple of the company she kept.

It was snowing, too much to meander around the fortress grounds without turning into a pillar of snow and ice. She had come to drop off confirmation that they would depart for the Graves in a week’s time, now that forces were all returned and properly recovered from the march on Adamant. It had taken so long and not enough time for that chapter to be turned.

But, as so often happened between her and Solas, a simple exchange didn’t end where it should. Ten minutes into their chit-chat that had grown into an epistemological sparring she had pulled up a lounge chair to the corner of his desk and curled up. Meanwhile he continued reading and sifting through his notes as if his own words stood to educate him.

She held a book between her stomach and thighs, her legs tucked against her making her body the shape of a ball. Maybe she wanted to hide for good measure, to seem insignificant in stature so no one would think to look twice. Maybe she was tired.

“Inquisitor,” he said as he opened a large tome, “did you not sleep well last night?”

Olivia blinked her dozing eyes open and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Rustling her weight around, she placed a hand on the book cover. “I did. Well, for my standards. I’m just exhausted from things that cannot be remedied by simple sleep.”

“Ah,” he didn’t bother looking up as he turned pages, licking his index finger fast in the middle of it all, “that does not surprise me.”

“Nothing surprises you, Solas.”

“That is not true. But, perhaps as it stands I am dismayed rather than shocked when things do not go as predicted.”

Olivia grinned, leaning her head back against the cushioned upholstery. “You wouldn’t speak to me for two weeks after I allowed the Wardens to remain assembled. I’d say you do have an ability to be very dismayed.”

His shoulder gave a slight shrug on one side. He set the book farther down the middle of the desk and grabbed a quill, preparing blank pages for more notes. So many notes, like how they used to make them do in the Circle: notes for the sake of repetition, rhythm, remembrance. It was a wonder how he found knowledge he appeared to apprehend already so interesting as to recite it.

“We have discussed your measures enough with regards to the Wardens, Inquisitor.”

“Yes, we have,” she gave a sigh, and pushed herself to put distance between her and the book she held. One would presume she did so that she could read it, but before opening the cover she stopped herself.

“Perhaps exhaustion has proven a more favorable option than engagement,” he remarked, eyeing her. When he looked at you, you knew. Whether you could explain the sensation or not was beside the point. Olivia had conditioned herself to be pristinely sensitive to the attentions of teachers and mentors whom she respected. Even when they encroached on truths of her unrest.

“I didn’t think you’d want to prick at my melodramas,” Olivia countered, opening the book as an act of despondent dissent against her own self.

“What are melodramatic episodes to you are measured on a broad scale, I would imagine.”

“You’d think, but somehow I cannot get out of having friends tugging on my arms and my heartstrings, and squabbles to both mediate and involve myself in somehow, someway. I hate when people would criticize my age, but…” Olivia took a ragged breath “I can’t blame them. If I was older, like the elders in the Rebellion, maybe I’d have more perspective”

Solas leaned away from his spread, upright and erudite as he tucked one ankle back under his chair seat. They both know her suggestion held no promises.

“Inquisitor, you are what, twenty-four?”

“Twenty-six,” she nodded once.

“Is not the life expectancy of Mages, regardless of race, no older than forty at best?”

Olivia raised a brow. Solas, keeping track of any and all logistics on Circle Magi? What on earth? Maybe he was doing more than meditating on the knowledges he had already invested in before the Inquisition. Curious, considering he had been in a tizzy about the Fade and its possibilities since they returned from the siege. It would be hard not to -- even Olivia dabbled in force and fade texts in order to put her mind at ease about what they experienced. But recalling those memories for the sake of study was harder to put into action that one might have hoped.

“It is, I think.” She turned through the preliminary book pages of notes and titular regards. “But it varies regionally. And I would think twice before treating the official published data signed off by Templars and the Chantry as truth.”

“Hm, of course,” he agreed as his gaze lowered to his work. He dipped his quill in ink, sliding the tip across the lid. “I was simply taking note of the trajectory in which you would have been found. Perspective must also take into account the time in which we are given to earn it.”

Olivia smirked. “For a Circle Mage that would mean what? Hoping to make the most pristine written copy of “Histories of Arcane Malpractices” to be replaced in the archives?”

“I am not one to intimately attest to institutional criticisms, I’m afraid.”

“You are also not one to stand idly by and allow for false equivalencies to be made,” she rebutled with friendly affection.

“Hm,” he grinned crookedly, finishing a line of writing. “Be that as it may, it would not be my place to intervene on the meaning of your life should you have lived it as you were expected to. Our relegations to insignificance are most often our own insecurity with having found a profoundness in our destiny rather than our objective appraisals.”

She giggled a bit, finding the cover page to the third chapter, where she had left off of. “Rest assured, it takes little expertise to know the Circles did, in fact, suck.”

“...Indeed.”

Her giggle grew a bit loud, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to conceal it. Her eyes flickered to him and saw that his smug grin had grown more apparent as well. She was content with that.

“Well, then,” she cleared her throat and straightened up her shoulders, “that argument concluded itself nicely.”

“Is every conversation you carry on with your allies an argument?”

Solas’s question was understated but painful, if that made sense. An indictment, almost. She pinched on the edge of page 112, her thumbnail creasing it. She slipped her tongue behind her bottom lip.

“I...I don’t know, to be honest.”

“If it is, I would be concerned, if not slightly intrigued,” he said as he turned another page. “You appear far too cheerful for someone mired in conflict hours on end.”

“Not everyone deserves to see my anger.”

“Because it is a privilege, or a danger, Inquisitor?”

She swallowed. “...both?”

He glanced at her, lips pursing slightly. “One would do well to be self-aware, if possible”

“In my experience, when you feel as though you understand, something just comes along to remind you that you are incorrect. Probably foolish for having even tried,” she skimmed a paragraph. A chapter on the geographical history of the Dales. One of her self-suggested assignments in preparation for their travels to come. Though, in the company of people such as Solas, it was hard to believe any scholarly opinion -- particularly a human’s -- without feeling like you were consenting to some kind of cop-out.

Above their heads, people walked and conversed in hushed tones. Conjecture, debate, small-talk, the differences didn’t mean much. Up higher, Leliana was undoubtedly hard at work with her more lethal activities. It was one of those hours in the day where everyone had their nose pointed in the direction of their purpose, concerted and orbiting around each other. After weeks of her friends butting heads and hearts, it was a luxury she was savoring on her tongue.

Time passed. Quiet time, good time. Time where only the flames hissing ever so often and the shifting parchment on Solas’s table disturbed her senses. She got through five full back-to-back pages. The Graves were lush, an adventurer’s escape, from the way the author went on and on. Romantic for a mass burial ground. At one point she closed the book and peeked at the spine.

The name was Orlesian. Not too familiar, but enough that she could bet money. Typical.

Returning to the passage she was on, she sighed slow through her nose. A hand strayed up to the side of her head and began playing with a strand of hair, twirling and twisting it around.

“Inquisitor.”

She cocked a brow, but did not break her focus. “Yes, Solas?”

“Your...friend.”

At the sound of “friend” her stomach sank. Ugh, not again. She had found refuge with the one ally she had thought would not give a single ounce of special attention to her gaggle of friends. Or, so she had thought.

“...which one? I have a few. You are one of them.”

Solas huffed through his nose. He adjusted the rim of his tunic sleeve. “Right. I was referring to the one who works in the Healer’s quarters.”

“Naomi?”

“If that is her name.”

“Yes. She doesn’t bite, you know. You could ask for yourself.”

He smirked, dipping his quill again. This time it was a shallower one, like a habitual reflex. “I do not need a personal acquaintance to know why you are so instinctively defensive of her.”

Of course he would know. Of course he would take only a few looks at her and see why it was Olivia would do anything possible to protect and provide for her. Naomi, out of them all. The one who saw the worth in every person even if she could not relate to them. The one who sought her role and fulfilled it well. No ambition, but dedication in spades.

“She...she is dear to me,” Olivia admitted, fingers clinging into the rim of the book, “that is true.”

“You believe that ample cover for the fact that she is sensitive?”

She closed the book abruptly and clung her knees closer to her chest. “She has gifts that none of us can understand. Gifts the Circle’s Templars did well to cover up. What concern is it to you?”

Her spark of temper caused him to set his quill down. He shifted in her direction, leaning onto one side with his elbow on the armrest. He didn’t look angry or insulted, but curious. As if he were chasing after one of his scholarly inquiries in the books he had assembled and the scrolls he had delivered. Eyes narrow, brow straight. Mouth hiding a quiver of a grin.

“She is anything but hard to understand. She is sensitive to spirits. The makings of a healer, with more training and practice of course. Why your Circle admonished her as a pariah, I am uncertain. There is nothing exceptionally dangerous about her.”

Solas was trying, in his own way, to disarm her protectiveness. It was appreciated, but his explanation only further unsettled her. Deep down she had believed the same about Naomi, but the embedded inferiority complex that Circles taught their Apprentices policed her convictions for years. After all, what gave a young Mage the right to challenge the authority of their teacher when they believed their friend needed to be policed and measured in case of potential danger? No matter that they’d never explain why, or that it was not a punishment.

“Naomi…” she stuttered, dropping her hair from her fingers and rubbing the side of her face, “Naomi doesn’t like to enchant. She was told it would be too risky for her to learn past a certain level.”

“For what reason now must she suppress herself? If she is capable and careful, is that not what you have designed in your programs to make possible? For the Mages to pursue their desires?”

“She doesn’t desire to be powerful, Solas. She desires to be safe and happy, as we all do.”

“And what Mage is happy when they remain fearful of themselves for no reason other than to honor the preachings of false police?”

He was blowing her beliefs right back in her face. She squirmed a bit in her chair, now feeling like a balled up and under-prepared companion animal. He continued to look at her, engrossed in the conversation. She wasn’t going to get out of this one easily. A voice in her head just kept saying “he’s wrong,” over and over.

“She discovered her magic at a young age while an orphan in Antiva. She wasn’t orphaned like Veronica was. Veronica was likely a child of one of ours, sent away from a Circle until she proved her condition. Naomi learned her truth out of nowhere, and played with it...she...she did things she shouldn’t have, before she knew better. That is all I know, all she would say for when we asked why she was something to be scared of.”

Rather than appalled, Solas was further fascinated. His eyes had that slight brightening, and his brow tilted. He glided backward against his chair and rest, hand going to his chin.

“I know you are sensitive because she is your friend, and therefore I will push no further. I only hope that you will contemplate the nature of her condition. It cannot be hidden forever, nor should it.”

Her eyes danced between two points on the floor. She nibbled on one side of her mouth, before rolling upright to sit squarely in the chair. Then she criss-crossed her legs underneath her to prove there were limits to her propriety. He was right. He knew she knew. It was a non-starter to pretend otherwise. The air left her chest, along with any remaining bravado she had. It was tiring, so tiring, all the time. And inescapable. Slouching, she re-opened her book and hung her head. Solas, apparently, did not take this lightly.

“For someone who describes her associations as arguments, you have given in rather easily. That is not the way I have come to know you,” he reached forward, flipping his page of notes onto its other side to continue writing. 

She huffed, shaking her head as she picked the page corner. “Maybe it is as you neglected to say before when I mentioned it: great leaders do not thrive off of the fury of their friends and the ease of the enemies.”

He hummed. “You read what I recommended.”

“Yes, always, Solas. Always,” she breathed out in exasperation, tucking hair behind her ear before she let her jaw rest in her hand, elbow stuck in her thigh. She couldn’t bare to look at him anymore; not because she disliked him or disapproved of his benevolent, though prickly interest. Perhaps she had run out of nerve to face her critical friends head on.

Always. She had used that word too much, as of late. It still stung in its aftertaste from that night. That night, of all damned nights.

“Do you remember when you came to me after you had confessed to your actions before the time of the Conclave, Inquisitor?” he called back her attention, seemingly unfinished with his precocious mood.

She turned another page. “Yes, I do. What of it?”

“Do you recall how sensitive you were to a hint of change in my regard for you, despite your claim that you were nevertheless unashamed of it?”

Oh, for goodness sakes. She tilted the cover onto her finger that held her spot on page 120, and raised her gaze to him.

“Yes, if that is what you think it was.”

He tilted his chin, not bothering to sever himself from his work. His index and pinky finger tracked the lines he was on, sliding down the paper and down paragraphs.

“I believe I have reason to. You have a tendency, as many leaders have whose legacies I have found impressions of in my travels.”

She furrowed a brow, the toe of her boot making a circular motion out of subtle restlessness. “And that would be?”

He looked up, surely but calmly. “A tendency to be haunted by that which you claim immunity to. Something, whether it be a feeling or a virtue, that you do not wish to be defined by. Nonetheless, your estrangement for it will fulfill its weight in you where you were afraid its embrace would have.”

They stared at each other. Solas, unbreakably authoritative: an elf who never wore shoes and whose tunic smelt like incense herbs more often than not. His habits and carrying on as mysterious as any frontier they had explored, and he was always a couple doorways away from being accessed. But, he was the one she first trusted to see a vulnerability and help her be the better for it. In his eyes and his riddled words she still saw that first, reluctant mentor, in a time of grave immediacy.

His words still hurt her like that first day in the snow at Haven, when he detailed the limitations of her magic and the unfit condition of her technique. Much had changed, but some refused to.

She blinked, as she always did when he was the pair of eyes on the other side. Frowning, she tucked her chin and looked at the carvings on her book’s cover.

“I suppose that means you think me weak, huh?” she muttered, dusting off a part of it.

“I think you limited, Inquisitor. But you have always known that,” he answered quick, paying no mind to the fragility she displayed involuntarily. “That is not something I would see you condemned for.”

She choked out a pity laugh, shrugging in defeat. “Then what, Solas? You knock me down a peg and tell me to rejoice?” she peeked and saw him smiling softly, and it softened the blow despite her hurt ego.

“I would consider it a truer fault for you not to be modest after being knocked down, than for you to strive to prove me wrong. As it stands, I can scarcely remember a time when I have criticized you and you did not immediately find reason to laugh.”

She retained some semblance of a smile to mirror his, though it paired with a soreness in her gut. She nodded a few times, her laughter settling down. Whether his observation was an insult to her seriousness or an exaltation of her humbleness, she would only know after time had passed and he continued to associate with her. Solas had been like that since the day they met: it was not whether he was positively or negatively interested in you, but the fact that he was interested in you, that mattered. Interest led to investment, and investment led to care. And she could never accuse him of not caring.

“Sometimes I forget that yours was the first laugh I heard after the Conclave’s explosion,” she said, resting her knee against the side of the armrest.

He hummed again. The sound of concession, and somewhat playful. “Your regard for Varric was worthy of it.”

“Lofty praise from you.”

“...something which you have received more than I originally predicted you would, Inquisitor.”

She raised a brow and looked at him once more. He was writing, but his eyes flickered towards her in between words once or twice. Enough for her to know he meant it, but he always meant it, so her suspicion was something she had only herself to blame for having. There was no reason why Solas would be affronted by joy, or humor, or playfulness. He did, after all, seek to befriend her -- even if his method of being ‘friends’ was elusive. She scanned his work desk, taking in all the materials he had around him, everything that seemed to have order and chaos at the same time. A wonderful combination of alleged opposites.

“Would you just give the woman a damn break and let her read, man?” A voice echoed from above. Tevinter, and far too full of sass to be anyone else’s besides Dorian’s. Olivia flinched and giggled low, while Solas tilted his head and shot one side-eyeing stare up towards him.

“Dorian!” Olivia laughed, “I am fine, promise!”

“Hm,” she heard, but nothing else. Solas shook his head once.

Indeed, Dorian was her reading companion for when she desired to be insignificant and ignorable -- something which she never expected she would appreciate. But Solas, Solas was the one who helped her feel uncomfortably significant, and then existentially useless. Maybe she should have thought that through before putting up camp in his office.

Or, maybe, it was for the better that she hadn’t. It had been too long since they last talked.

\--

“Preparations are in order for our celebration of Annum, Inquisitor,” Josephine said from her seat at her desk while she pulled together another stack of papers to be tied, sealed, and stack for sendout. “And as for these, I will have these plans edited and finalized to be sent in the morning, as well. With any luck, we will have the first funds received just in time before your departure for the Dales.”

It was early evening, the last evening of the year. Annum was not celebrated until the first day of the new year, and depending on which culture you came from, that day was full of various staples. Checking on relatives, visiting loved ones, ensuring that everyone you cared for had made it into the new year with you. In Orlais, the nobility did what they did best: overdrinking, under-apologizing, and pretending to pray.

Signing off on the last check of paperwork, though, Olivia found herself envying their carelessness.

“How are appropriations from the Warden treaties sustaining themselves?” Olivia asked as she handed off her handiwork to the assistant that was looming beside her, ready to have it taken away to the proper offices.

“Very well,” Josephine answered short, she, herself having busied eyes and hands. “We have done well to be conservative with what we have been afforded. And we have followed your direction in sending a portion to the Wardens themselves to aid in recovery efforts.”

“Good, very good,” Olivia grinned, pacing away as she read another report. Her eyes widened a bit when the handwriting in the margins was not the curved and beautifully slanted words. It was short, wonderfully neat, but direct writing. The kind she’d read in passed notes, crinkled and folded to avoid detection from supervising eyes.

Blush hit home in her cheeks. That which she had been delaying and denying came front and center to her mind.

“Uh, Ambassador,” she said as she had her back to her, her throat going dry.

Josephine, pleasant and clever. “Yes, Inquisitor?”

Olivia turned to the side. “H-how is my friend, Theia...I mean, is she working to your standards?”

She looked when she didn’t want to, and saw what she didn’t want to see. Josephine’s eyes lit up, but in the way only hers would: bright, but confident in their irreproachable nature. Her face was without the burgundy of blush, but she her grin creased against either cheek. It was all so quick, but all so warm.

Josephine lifted her shoulders back, the back of her forearms resting on the edge of her desk. “She is proving an efficient addition to my staff. Rest assured, there has been no friction. You were right, she is...quite clever.”

Olivia had to smile. Josephine being pleased was a score in her book, regardless of source. She deserved it. “Very good, I am glad. She has minded her manners, too?” she smirked, switching pages in between her hands.

Josephine grabbed her letter knife and reached for a still sealed and tied missive. Work was never done. “Surely, Inquisitor. And if she had not, I would see fit to instate a considerable learning curve, as you well know.”

“Hah,” Olivia chuckled, “yes, I do.”

“Are you concerned? Is there something else that gives you reason?” Josephine pried open the letter, reading and talking with ease because of course multitasking was her forte. Despite this, guilt ensued in Olivia’s mind over wasting her time with prying. The discomfort of having to approach Theia had manifested into a consultation of care with the Ambassador.

“Er, no, not specifically,” Olivia shook her head, continuing to read and juggle work alongside her. “Maybe it is just my nerves with the Mages all over again.”

Josephine giggled a bit. “Inquisitor, what we discussed this morning has not changed. Your plans and policies have been a logistical success, despite conjecture. Even the Commander had to admit it. I was sure that I would have to ask for his approval in writing, to have concrete record.”

“Hm, why did we let that slide?” Olivia began to laugh under her breath, “you saw the way his face contorted. As if he had rolled out of bed and tasted sour molasses first thing.”

Josephine pressed her hand to her lips, a tsk-tsk for herself as she bit back her own laugh. “The man is trying, which is more than I could say for most every official I encountered in the Capitol during my tenure who had martial experience. Perhaps we would do well to not test his nerve for teasing.”

Her recommendation was nice to think about. But, as her and Olivia locked knowing eyes in silence, followed by more suppression of giggling, everyone in the room understood. There would be no end to teasing just as there would be no end to energetic debate. That was the haphazard tradition of the Council room, and even with a new year on the brink, it would not change.

She finished her analysis, approaching Josephine’s desk once again and grabbing a spare quill and preparing to write her own notes for editorial measures. As she did, a marvelous little sight caught her eye: a small bouquet of flowers in a vase on the Ambassador’s shelf. Small, and not at all fancy or artistic like Josephine’s aesthetics would require. Olivia had seen the small flowers before, on her rides out on the trails surrounding Skyhold. They were harvested also by the apothecary Mages for recipes.

They were piper blossoms, so named because they were often embroidered into musician’s decorative tapestries and robes. At least, such was so in Orlais. They grew everywhere, kind of like daisies or dandelions. Their simple touch bordered a couple of lilies. Lilies? How? In this winter?

Olivia was confounded and not shy about it. “Josephine...lilies?”

The Ambassador looked up, also confused as to the question. She turned her shoulders, following Olivia’s direction, and exhaled in relief and another laugh. More coy this time.

“Oh! Hah,” she said, quill hand in the air, “Yvette had some sent from the grove nearest to the Frostbacks. They were sent as small buds, so that when they arrived, they would be blossomed. She is a fatiguing personality, but she has an eye for detail.” She looked back down at her work. “If only she would commit it to her studies.”

Olivia smiled. The grief of an older sister was never done, then. “How kind. And to have the piper blossoms added, what a sweet touch.”

“Oh, the piper blossoms...well, actually,” Josephine halted, sitting up again to peer at the bouquet. “Those were given by your friend, Theia. I was told the Mages studying botanics in the tower had a surplus of the flower, and they were looking for ways to avoid waste.”

Piper Blossoms, a product that shouldn’t be wasted? The stuff grew like yellow grass. You could run through the forest thicket, collect it caught on your skirts or tunic fabric, and pick it off like weeds without care. They were pretty, yes, but they were common. Unless of course they came with the obliging regard of an uncommon Mage.

Olivia flushed. Biting back her tongue and trying her best to return to adding notes, her mind began to spin. On the one hand she wanted to slam her hand on the desk and demand Josephine wake up and smell the...well, the scentless Piper’s blossoms. But such a brash action would be offensive to her reputation; surely Josephine would never intentionally egg on admiration from Theia. She would be the one woman Olivia could trust to be immune to it. Veronica was scorned and had no trust left in anyone, least of all those who fallen under Theia’s sights. However, Olivia had reason and evidence to believe otherwise.

Those damn blossoms. She glared at them ever so often as she wrote. The more she looked at them, the more she imagined Theia’s carefree laugh and easy smile. That was how she’d get you.

Olivia was looking for something, anything to distract her. The situation only grew worse. Across Josephine’s desk, beside her writing utensils and wax seal, one of the blossoms was resting. A scraggly stem and a couple limp leaves, the blossoms themselves loose and a bit wrinkled. Still, the stark white color of them contained some subtle charm. Where had it been? Did it fall to the floor, or from the vase, so that Josephine would have to tidy it up and maintain her meticulous quarters? Okay, yes, perhaps that.

Or maybe Theia had done that thing. That thing where she offered the collected bunch, picked one from it specially, and handed it to her. Maybe Josephine had held it in her hands while she did work, toying with it, pressing on the petals and leaves until they looked so frayed she had to put it down. Maybe she had it in her hair, her neat and perfectly done hair, adding to its allure. In her mind’s eye she saw Josephine’s hand at first, sticking it in between twisted curls. That was bad enough -- the more dreadful image came when the hand turned into Theia’s gaunt and spindly fingers.

Maker. Why did she have to ask about the fucking flowers.

Olivia shook her head and thus herself out of her paranoia. Scratching the paper with her quill on the last annotation, she made quick work of blowing the ink dry. She re-folded the drafted writing and slid it in Josephine’s direction with respect.

“I must go. I have to meet with Dagna before supper hour,” she concluded, rubbing her hands together. “Is there anything else you need of me, Josephine?”

The Ambassador looked across and smiled with an unassuming expression. One that broke Olivia’s suspicious heart clean in two. “Nothing that I have not had already sent to your desk, Inquisitor. Do take care, and give the Arcanist my kind regards.”

Always so sincere. This was the woman who sent a flower basket to Scout Harding as thanks for her service. This was the woman who ensured all the workers had good pay, leave to be sick if needed, and notes on their birthdays. Olivia could feel the groan brewing in her throat, along with the carnal desire to stomp the ground and whine. Not her! Why her?

But of course, why not her? You would be a fool not to fall in love with Josephine Montilyet. A damned, damned fool.

Bowing her head and retreating, she walked with a steady and eager pace away from her friend and advisor. Once through the door and shutting it behind her, the Hall for once was a secluded respite. That is, until she was at once greeted by Varric, bow in arm and grin on face.

“Firefly,” he greeted, “I assume you’re in line for our meet up with Dagna.”

That was right. The meeting was over archery mechanics. Sera was supposed to be attending but, she had told Olivia she didn’t want to look dumb in front of...oh, what was she calling her now? Windle? Whistle?

“Yes,” Olivia sighed, hands on hips as she walked forward. “Early, I see, Varric?”

“Heh, early for being late,” he answered, shifting Bianca into his two hands instead of on his shoulder. “Something spook you, or did you try a new face powder today?”

Her eyes widened, hand pressing against her cheek. “What?! No, not that, uh,” she rubbed, “I just...am tired, is all.”

He watched her, an air of teasing skepticism in his attitude. To his credit, he did not push more. Stepping away and towards the door to the undercroft, he beckoned her to follow along. They walked slow, but not agonizing for her.

“I never got to ask, how was Caer Oswin? People are whispering that the Seekers are little more than dust under boot heels, now.”

“They are...well, they’re a bit screwed. I wouldn’t be the one to ask, you know that.”

He snorted. “Yeah, you got a point. I just don’t think I’m the one to pull up with a pint of ale and ask how goes it for her.”

Her. Oh, it was going, alright. More reasons for it than Olivia cared to disclose. She folded her arms as the neared the edge of the throne stairs, the moonlight casting through the glass windows. In a fitting visual, firefly light flowed in through their translucent colorations, speckling the stone and throne chair.

“You know Cassandra,” she said after a pause, “she will open up when she thinks it time.”

He lowered a brow when she looked at him, a wry smile growing. “You know, Firefly. I think that’s the kicker. Compared to you, I don’t know her. But I’ll happily take your word on it.”

Her throat stiffened as she looked at him. Caught, and clumsy, with her sentimentalities. Sera’s mention of his book writing came into her mind, and she couldn’t blame him. The shit that happened around them was enough for an entire library of treatises on how to run a Holy cause that was more like a haphazard cause for concern, day-to-day, than anything else.

They came to the undercroft door and stood still for a brief impasse. Varric knew how to get a story from Olivia, and it sure wasn’t like this. She was a prickly and preserved hold of secrets that each had their own locking mechanisms. Some thought it best to go at them with cleavers and axes, but to no avail. Varric, though. He did it right.

A kindness, a joke, and a comfort.

“Well, Inquisitor,” he gave in, fiddling with the safety on Bianca. “Time to see how we can shoot things dead quicker.”

She held back a chuckle. “Not just quicker, silly. With style. And maybe some fire and poison dashed in, to make sure we are the overachieving bastards everyone believes us to be.”

The headed in to the sound of Varric’s satisfied laugh. A damn break, as Dorian would say, finally.


	64. The First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is Annum at Skyhold. While the Inquisitor is preoccupied with business and planning for the upcoming expedition to the Emerald Graves, her friend Naomi discovers a curious donation to the fortress libraries which leads her straight to Seeker Pentaghast of all people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I told ya'll I love Naomi? because I love Naomi.

Annum tradition said you were expected to check in on family and loved ones to ensure whether they had made it into the new year alongside you. In Orlais, that norm was creatively interpreted: Olivia had ‘fond’ memories of her Mother on the day, year after year, fielding letters from various relatives. Some were to confirm they yet lived, others to answer for the death of others. The most nauseating part was when those death notes would be followed by two or three rounds of letters sent to redact them, confirm them, neither confirm nor redact, and sometimes duel over who was credited with a ghastly murder plot. Orlesian nobility took advantage of grey areas like vultures took hold of roadkill.

Standing in the middle of the Hall whilst the last of the tasteful decorations were mounted on mantles and beams, some in a Capitol red, those childhood sensations revived themselves. It helped, though, to be interrupted by a friend.

“Josie says I have to wear a flower hole thing, what’s up with that?” Sera pushed her in the shoulder once arrived at her side, dressed in her quintessential plaidweave.

Olivia shook her head, blinking fast. “A flower hole thing?”

“You know, that bush you wore on your head for Saint-nail-ya.”

“A...a wreath?”

“Yep, a reed thing,” Sera said, a bit distracted by the hoisting of a chandelier up above their heads.

“A wreath comes with anything but reeds, thank goodness. Although, there was that one time my Great Aunt--.”

“If you like ‘em so much then you stack ‘em all on your head, Liv,” Sera groaned, “Tell her it’s a no thanks, ruffles.”

“Why wouldn’t you want to wear something so pretty?” Liv asked as she thumped her fingers on her thigh. Wreaths were one of the few traditions she enjoyed, but she could never pinpoint exactly why. They were usually cumbersome, itchy, and easily snagged on something. But there was a kind of whimsy and regal aspect of them. Kind of like being a Princess and a muse in the wild at the same time. Though, admittedly, that was not Sera’s aesthetic.

She only scoffed, and scratched the side of her head, already irritated by the accessory.

Olivia changed her tactics. “You know, wreaths have a hazard of attracting bees…”

Sera’s face turned. “...Bees?”

“Yes. If you’re not careful, you could get quite a few caught up in your hair.”

Once fed up, now intrigued, Sera narrowed her gaze. She sucked on her teeth and looked around. It was almost genuinely suspenseful.

“I want bees in a jar, not bees in my hair. Tell Josie, please, or else she’s gonna chase after me again, and I don’t like how fast she is in those slippers.”

The Inquisitor laughed, waving a hand in the air. “Fine, fine. I tried my best. I suppose I’ll neglect to wear one, too. I’m not feeling much for it.”

As if needing a visual for why she wasn’t exactly in cheerful spirits, Olivia looked over and saw her -- a pronoun that has increasingly become acidic to her and her life as of late -- and stiffened up. Theia was working hard, having been up even before the Inquisitor had been, ensuring that Josephine’s direction for the Hall aesthetics were going immaculately. Dressed in deep blue slacks and a coat, she looked like she had never left the cushioned life she was born to in the Marches. Ever so often she’d twitch a finger or raise an arm, and something would levitate up onto a hook. An easy fix for a Mage.

Olivia had to wonder if she was being satisfied by such a role. Theia used to be one of the most competitive and single-minded Mages she had ever known. Hours of training, sparring, repetitive enchanting until everything from first thought to dispel was perfect. Now, she was little more than a secretary capable of parlor tricks. Fiona and the Rebel leadership would have her flogged verbally for having such an opinion, considering it was the Inquisitor’s initiative to have Mages bequeathed the liberty of everyday works. While they’d admonish her, Vivienne would laugh and clink her teacup with hers. A sweet sound of vindication.

“Hey, blondie,” Sera tapped her heavily in the back. “What you slobbering about?”

Olivia cleared her throat and looked back with chagrin boiling in her throat. Staring was a bad habit. “I, er...nothing, just the meeting this morning, all our plans, you know. The usual.”

“Right.” Sera huffed with a grin.

Olivia stared back out of the hopes that confidence would get her off her scent. With Sera, turning and facing the teasing rather than running from it proved more successful. More, but not always.

“I’m fine,” Olivia patted her on the back before walking back over to the wood table, where she had sprawled out her missives and notes to sort through. “You, however, need to tell me how the mixture we worked on is handling the arrows.”

Sera delayed following after her, pulling one of her tunic sleeves further down her arm. “Agh, well...you want the shite news or the rubbish news?”

Olivia peered over. “...both?”

“Well…” Sera bit the side of her lip, avoiding eye contact. “It didn’t work.”

“It...it didn’t work?”

“It didn’t do the thing, you know? The spark, the smoke, the weird magic stuff. It just stays powder. There has to be something we can do, yeah?”

“Ugh!” Olivia tossed the papers she had picked up across the table, one hand going to her hip and the other to her forehead. “I trial and tested that for two weeks! How could it not ignite? Did you put it on the fresh arrows we had sent from Dagna?”

“I, uh,” Sera blushed a bit at the invocation of the Arcanist’s name, “yep. All of them.”

Great. Fantastic. Less than a week before their departure to the Graves and the poison she had been concocting whenever she had the limited free time to was proving a bust. Deep down, it was no secret. Olivia had been spread thin, pulled away to everywhere but her desk in the tower, leaving Naomi to put it to good use. Being Inquisitor took away a lot of things, but she would cling to some more than others. One of them was being the person, indeed the Mage, she always had been. Always been, but perhaps not anymore.

“Look,” Sera said with a hand going to her shoulder, “it’s gonna work out, yeah? You just gotta go back to the board and sketchup. You always do, and it always happens.”

“Yes, Sera, but I only have days to do so. I have nothing to work with. I have meetings from dawn ‘till dusk, the Commander is chasing after my tail to make sure I hunt down red lyrium exports almost the second we land in the Graves, and...ugh! I’m so tired of having a list longer than I am tall!” she rocked and let her head fall back as she slouched in aggravated defeat.

“Liv! Hey, gloom-and-doom!” Sera grabbed her by the shoulders and argued in her fact, “get it together!” she then shook her like a mad woman on too much drink. “You’re the Quiz, you don’t got it all down, we’re all piss poor. You’re short, we get it, but you’re not tiny.”

“I’m not tiny,” Olivia closed her eyes and nodded.

“You’re not tiny, and you’re not bad.”

“I’m not tiny, and I’m not bad.”

“You’ve been no fun, but it’s okay to be no fun.”

“It’s okay to be no fun.”

Olivia shot her eyes open at the sensation of a hand against her face. It was the gentlest kind of tap and yet it made a sharp cracking sound like a babe being smacked on their ass. Flinching, she took a breath and blew out her mouth, puffing her cheeks. Sera was right. Listing off her duties so she could wax poetic about things not going her way wasn’t going to change anything. The only thing she could do was stick by her guns and remember she could call more shots than she thought.

“Okay,” she dusted off her vest, “okay. I’ll go back to my notes and get back to you by tomorrow.”

Sera grinned, stepping back and looking smug. “That’s it. Now, give me the dish on the Dales.”

\--

_Later that same day, in the Skyhold Library --_

Mages ruled where books lived; it was like a honeycomb to a swarm of bees. Sacred and beloved, and a hive mind. Outsiders understood the pairing and would do better to leave it all be, lest they provoke a fight. It made sense to love libraries when your one allotted liberty was to learn and repeat what you read, saw, and heard. They wouldn’t go to all the trouble of locking them up in towers and eating the keys if they didn’t mean for them to make do.

Whether they learned the correct things, the fair things, the right things -- that was an uncertainty. But that was the thing about the truth: it was a seeker for a witness like you were for a culprit.

Besides, Annum was a good day to make good on some chores: one being exchanging texts from the library reserves and the Mage tower. The Inquisitor -- Gem -- had ensured that Mages would get to enact their own precise organization protocol for the materials. Every lending, return, and transport between areas was logged. It wasn’t a full-proof system, but it was one -- and that mattered when you were handling borrowed knowledges from all corners of the world.

And Naomi was in need of a good book on necromancy. For...reasons.

There was a loose string on the hem of her gown sleeve. She had been tugging and picking at it with her fingers as she walked, probably only making it worse. But it was too ticklish to resist. Only when she came around to the large and long table with stacks to be filed and recorded did she release it from underneath her fingernail. Seeing Fiona -- the actual Fiona -- was a potent enough distraction from those kinds of habits. She wouldn’t dare have the guts to approach her, and besides, she had business to attend to.

“A tough day of shipments, Violetta?” she smiled as she approached the far end of the table where a Mage was hunched over at her seat, writing in front of an open, wide book. Blonde, like another woman Naomi was fond of, but frailer looking.

The woman raised her brows up towards her visitor, and scoffed resentfully. “Always. I’m three fleas shy of a Mabari chewing on a bone.”

“Only three?”

“...It’s been a day,” she sighed, tossing her quill to the side and sitting up. “What do you need?”

Naomi pulled a piece of paper she had stuck in her belt, her ember brown and black curls that had been falling out of her bun since the morning she put them up getting in the way of her vision. With a friendly shrug she handed it off to her.

“I need this title. I couldn’t find it in our collection over there. A collection of treatises on necromancy, an Imperium volume.”

“Imperium?” Violetta scrunched her nose, picking up the paper and holding it up in the air, as if to see through it. “Oh, hah,” she smirked, “no wonder you didn’t get it. It was snatched up as soon as it landed here.”

“What? By whom?”

Violetta fell back in her chair and nodded off in the direction beyond Naomi’s shoulder. Following her direction, Naomi found only a single man sitting rather bodaciously in a comfy chair by a nook window. He was playing with his mustache and reading as if that was the only thing expected of him in the day. Wait.

“Is he the--”

“The Tevinter Altus who dissented from his own countrymen? A hallucination, I know.” Violetta picked up her quill and placed the tip to her tongue, a habit if you were trying to salvage dried ink. “He’s swallowed up every book he could get his hands on. He’s studying something, don’t know what, though. If you ask me, it isn’t worth getting your hands dirty, if you think about the trouble the Inquisitor found in Redcliffe.”

Naomi didn’t get to hear many stories from Olivia’s own mouth about what she had been through since being named the Herald and Inquisitor thereafter. Redcliffe, and Alexius, was one of only two or three anecdotes. It was difficult not to talk story of Mages messing with magical theories long thought impossible. Time magic, especially. Naomi herself had no interest in such extremities. Not like some people, evidently.

“Hm,” she sighed, her chest deflating. “Maybe it’s for the better. I only needed it for diagram cross-referencing. He must need it for something far more…”

“Hazardous?”

Naomi chuckled. “I was going to say vital to the Inquisitor.”

Violetta huffed. “That is everyone’s excuse in her Inner Circle. I’m surprised the Apostate on the first floor hasn’t opened a vortex to swallow us whole yet.”

Naomi bit her lip, her hand going to her stomach to press against the laugh bubbling within it. Her eyes wandered across the stacks beyond her little corner of the table. Some marked with paper notes signifying catalogs, others looking freshly dumped for her or someone else to sort through. She slid her hand across the tabletop edge, stepping towards the middle.

“Wait…” she snorted, placing her hand on one stack and arching her neck back to read all the spine titles. “what on Earth are these supposed to be?”

Violetta had returned to her duties, writing and picking up another book to measure. “Which stack?”

“This one, the one with the...are these Andrastian hymnals?”

“Oh! Hah!” Violetta said, exasperation in her throat, “donations.”

“Donations? From where?” Naomi grabbed the third one down and slid it out from the pile. The book was well-kept, leather-bound, carefully crafted. When she opened the cover the paper felt soft and even, and thick. This wasn’t just a nomad’s prayer book, worn and dirtied from being copied off in a rural village somewhere. Well-done copies only came from two places: the Chantry, where they were done by faithful themselves, or by Circle Mage scholars.

“I...I thought the Chantry did not stand with the Inquisition? Why would they be sending us texts?”

“Not from the Chantry,” Violette replied curtly, head focused on her work. “Close.”

“What does that mean?”

“Seeker Pentaghast dropped them off this morning, bright and early. Said she had no use for them anymore. She must have brought two crate’s worth, half of this mess is from her.”

The Seeker? Now, that was a scintillating plot twist. If she was any of her friends, she would be giggling and banging on the table for more details. But while some thought the truth could only be uncovered through blunt force demands, there were other ways. Frowning in sympathetic dismay, she set down the hymn book and continued to peruse. Poetry books, anthologies, essays, all romantic in genre in one way or another. Quite the curious array of preferences for a warrior woman who looked like she could refreeze thawed out snow with only her eye contact and a hand gesture. Then again, people like her always had more to them than what meets the eye, even if what met the eye was a punch in the face.

“Oho,” Naomi laughed, reaching across and picking out a lewd cover. “One of my Mentors at Ostwick read these books. I could never remember the title!”

Violette peeked. “What, Swords & Shields? Pfft. We don’t even have a section for that birdcage bedding.”

“Violetta, come now,” Naomi teased with a low brow.

“Do not get me started on romance novels. If you ask me, the Inquisitor was right to veer away from them in constructing the library stocks. Now we will have to make an entirely new space for these, and we have limited shelving as it is.”

Violetta was harsh, but not atypical. Circle Mages could be, and oftentimes were, notoriously snobby with literature. Especially if you were young and eager to prove your salt. Olivia was one of them for a time; it was the worst when Naomi first met her when they were teens. The girl looked like she hadn’t stuck her nose up to breathe air up from out of her books in years. It took a while, but eventually she learned to find reasons to live beyond that which she read under her bed blanket at night.

Even though it had been a long time since she had seen any of the books in person, for some reason the unfamiliarity of the cover art bothered Naomi. She couldn’t place it. And the book felt new, and didn’t have that odor that came with age. She examined it as if she could decipher clues.

“Why are you so nosy? Think you’re going to find sciences of necromancy in her collection, of all people?” Violetta asked, unamused.

“One could hope. Maybe I am just passing the time. Strange for a person like her to...” She opened the front cover so she could skim as she had the last book. She stuttered to a halt, though, when her eyes were met with writing rather than blank paper. In an instant, looking through orphaned books for shits and giggles had evolved into intrigue.

Her expression hardened and she held the book closer.

_"For future convenience, the excerpts without horrendously written erotic detail are as follows: pages 27-29, 78-79, and 120-124. In case you wish to read to me again. - O"_

Keen but sweet, critical but thoughtful. Curt, but giving into the existence of affectionate thought. She had known a girl like that.

“Oh…” she said aloud, pressing her hand to her lips.

“What?”

She flinched, shutting the book with a crack. “Nothing! Just, just poor writing. I couldn’t take even the first page.”

The Mage laughed with self-satisfaction. “Right, see? I told you.”

“In fact it’s…” Naomi gulped and then clutched the book to the side of her chest. “It’s so backward and appalling, I think I’m going to destroy it personally.”

“I…I really should record it. It is technically inventory,” Violetta sat up again, rubbing the wrist of her writing hand. Tired muscles, tired mind. Naomi did her best rendition of a sly smile, turning and tilting her head onto one side.

“Come on, Violetta. No one will miss it. One less book for you to write down…”

Violetta eyed her, and then the book. A lesser workload mattered more than dedication, at least when it came to meaningless romance novels that contributed nothing of epistemological value to scholars. She gave a discrete nod and a smile.

“Go on, get out of here,” she played and shooed her with her hand. “Before one of the older Mages gets bored and cranky.”

Naomi choked a giggled down and scurried for it, picking up the side of her dress skirt. As she went passed the Tevinter Mage’s nook she glanced his way, and to her warm excitability he returned her look. He looked curious, but apathetic towards her existence. That would have to change if she was going to get her hands on that book. But, first things first was resolving one problem at a time.

\--

The two people she had asked for direction to where the Seeker worked both had the same “oh, dear” expression on their faces at her request. As if to say “why on Earth would you be seeking her out? If you’re not in any trouble…” and they became even pale when she was revealed to be a Mage. A Mage looking for Cassandra Pentaghast seemed to be akin to a naked man looking for a wyvern to dance with. Nevertheless, Naomi Ambrosia had a kindness to give, and no one’s disturbed gossip could dissuade her.

The Smith’s forge cottage was large, overwhelming from the inside, but warm. Inviting, even, if you considered BO and burning metal endearing. The precursor aromatics to war, one might say if they had the time and the poetic mind. Up the stairs her pace got slower and slower as the feet between her and the woman she had scarcely looked at only a few times became fewer. Olivia’s tiny twinkle in her eye and refusal to discuss her more than two minutes was hardly enough to substantiate an opinion on the Nevarran. But, she would have had to do something to get Olivia to have that little light in her eyes, an that was something.

Halfway up the last flight, Seeker Pentaghast’s head of short, frayed black hair showed, along with a grimacing face. She was sitting at the bench, elbow anchored on the table and hand to her mouth. She was leaning away from whatever it was she had in front of her.

The crickety wood beneath her feet ruined the element of surprise. Naomi stopped and the Seeker jerked up, straight to her feet and brows lifted.

Oh, well, damn. Talk about being out on a limb.

Naomi slid the book behind her in both her hands. “Seeker Pentaghast…”

Cassandra’s chin twitched to the side, and she immediately steeled. Collecting herself, she stepped to the side, away from her seat. “Identify yourself.”

“Oh! Uh, hm,” Naomi found her throat a bit drier than it was a few seconds prior. “Naomi. Just Naomi.”

There was a pause. Cassandra was evaluating her. Something intuitive said Naomi was not the woman she would have been eased to see come up the stairs.

“Naomi. You are one of the Inquisitor’s friends. I remember you,” she took a breath and put her arms behind her, mirroring Naomi’s stance. “You may come forward.”

Naomi bowed her head and finished the last few stairway steps ahead of her, still holding onto some of her gown fabric as she came to stand in front of her. The Seeker’s desk came into full view, then: papers congruently stacked in piles side-by-side, looking completed but with less-than-artful handwriting. A field book, presumably of notes, tied closed. The one big thing, though, was the tome that made everything else appear puny. Ancient looking even out the corner of her eye, with an emblem of an eye on the front.

Seeker Pentaghast came forward, her assertiveness intimidating Naomi into refocusing.

“Hm, pardon me,” Naomi shook her head.

“Is there...something you need?” Cassandra asked, stiff but not altogether menacing. It had been a while since Naomi had been in the presence of Seekers. Her shoulders tensed nonetheless at the lessening space between them.

“I’ve come because...well,” she slowly pulled the book around her side, clinging it to her hip and then her stomach. The Seeker’s amenable exterior cracked a bit when she saw what she had brought, but it was only in the flicker of her eyelids and nothing more.

“I found something that belonged to you in the library, and I wondered if it would be best to return it,” she confessed.

The Seeker furrowed her brow, remaining otherwise still. “Something of mine?”

“A book. Well, hah,” Naomi smirked, “there were quite a few, not just one. But, I figured this one you’d…” she stuttered. Maker, this woman was a marvel of subliminal terror. How did anyone carry out a conversation with her when she could stare like a sword could slice?

That wasn’t enough, though. Stepping forward, the Seeker looked down at the book. “You went through the books I gave to the library?”

“Went through? No! I mean, well. It is our job. You donate to the library, and they must be sorted and written down. I was there when my friend was working, and that is where I found it. But, I…”

There was no easy way to say you thought that she would want to keep it because it held a handwritten and rather adorable note from a friend in its pages, and that perhaps keeping it for sentimental value rather than practicality was an option.

But, then, a humming voice came. One that calmed while the Seeker continued to glare.

_Be gentle, even though she is not. She needs it. She will need it to remind her in the days to come._

Fresh air felt good in the lungs when you were nervous. Naomi let it settle into her chest before she finished her answer.

“It is a Chapter of a romance serial, but when we were sorting, I found it had a written passage from someone in the front. I know that when I receive notes from those I love, I like to keep them. I wondered if you were the same kind of person. That is all, Seeker Pentaghast.”

Before the woman could shift her off balance again she held it out, cover up, towards her. Cutting to the quick and the bottom line. Maybe if being intrusive was grading on her nerves, being forthcoming would assuage them.

The Seeker was nonplussed at first, standing still and not giving in a single congenial inch. It took a moment, but she at last allowed herself to reach a hand and take it. Her face said skeptical, but her hand said anything but.

She held it out in front of her armored chest and took it all in. Her face softened, so much so Naomi felt like a trespasser for so much as witnessing it. So this was the woman they all feared?

As she stood back, the Seeker turned around and went to the tall, thin window. Okay, what was there to do, now? Leave quietly, and never speak of it again? Go over and pat her on the shoulder?

_Just wait._

“I should not keep this,” the Seeker admitted as she opened the cover. Her hand rubbed up the page with the note. “it is…nevermind.”

She walked to the table and set the book off to the side, far away from the tome, which was secretly gnawing at Naomi’s curiosity.

“You do not have to explain, Seeker Pentaghast. I am sure it would not be my place to ask,” she shifted her weight towards the stairs.

The Seeker returned sat back down, heavy and with no ceremony. “You would be right in that inference.”

Naomi grinned, pushing politeness in the face of bluntness. “As Olivia would say, no need to telling an ocean to soak, or the sky to breathe, or for a man t--”

“--to undersatisfy, yes. I know.”

The Seeker wasn’t looking at her, but from what Naomi could see, there was both pain and pleasantry fighting a turf war on the Seeker’s face. She was distracting herself, pulling the tome closer to her right side and then her field note journal to the other, looking as if she were preparing for more work. For what and how, no one could say but her.

“I...imagine it makes more sense in the original Orlesian,” she coughed awkwardly, rubbing her forearm.

“Marginally.”

“...Oh.”

“Is there something else you needed, Naomi?” Cassandra looked up, one hand on her thigh.

Naomi blinked and pushed her shoulders back, at attention. “No, Seeker. Just that. Is there anything that I could do for you?”

Cassandra huffed through her nose. “You have done enough.”

_She will apologize and thank you when time has passed. She is already biting it back now._

The voice slipped in and out the pouring of water. But it was sacrosanct. Naomi bowed her head a last time. “Farewell, Seeker Pentaghast.”

Despite her coldness, the Seeker looked sincere when she nodded her head in return. That underlying gratuity was brimming. There was no need to stand and play audience to it falling apart or coming up to the surface. Naomi walked back down the stairs more than pleased with herself in the most sincere and ego-less of ways. She had followed a hunch and been vindicated.

Coming outside, it was a brief interlude of sunshine through the splintering clouds. Icey, brisk brightness draped all over the fortress grounds. She stood in the middle of the upper courtyard and hugged herself, smiling as it enveloped her. Antiva was a life away, but in these passing seconds, it was that much closer.

“Naomi!” a funny tone called from across the way. The sound of boots jogging. Opened eyes revealed it to be Roslyn, fresh out of sparring practicing with glistening brow and hair caked to her head. That, and the dented up training armor, but who paid attention to that when Roslyn made grime look so friendly?

“Lyn, goodness, you’re a sight for...eyes.”

“Hah!” Lyn came to a stop, falling back a step as she caught her heaving breath. “Just got back from the grounds. I feel more alive than an Eagle gone on a nosedive!”

Naomi laughed. “You say that every day. Come, walk me to the tower.”

Roslyn exhaled sharply, punching herself lightly in the gut as she followed at her side. A walk-out would be good for her body, anyway. Nothing hurt a recovery like going from all-out to rest. Any healing Mage who paid attention to their job could tell you the difference between a fighter who took care of their bodies, and one who went straight to the cot. For instance, one would yell at you explaining how they couldn’t turn their head, or feel their toes, or walk straight, and to give them either a tonic or a bottle of something strong.

As they neared the stairs, Lyn composed herself. “Are you going to the banquet tonight for Annum?”

“I thought so. It sounds like a fun occasion.”

“Veronica said she would if I went, and I said I would if you did.”

“Oh, well, damn. Who am I to blackmail and continue the chain?”

Roslyn shrugged with a chuckle. “Theia and Olivia are already having to go. Maybe you’re where the buck stops. Some things never change, eh? What were you doing in the smith’s forge, anyway?”

Naomi’s eyes went wide before she could curtail her visceral reaction. She turned her head outward to look at the view as they ascended the battlement stairs.

“That? I got lost on my way to the library.”

“What?”

“Lost, that is all.”

“Since when does a library and a forge look alike?”

Naomi folded her arms. “It wasn’t about the destinations, but the path there, Roslyn.”

Roslyn was shoving her hands in her knotted hair, trying to comb through with her fingers. She had already put her hair ribbon in her mouth to hold while she tamed it all. She really should have just gone to bathe instead of trying to make it all look presentable. Looks was one thing, but smell was another, after all.

“Well, shit,” she said, muffled with her tie in her teeth, “maybe lay off the day drinking, then.”

Naomi elbowed her once they rounded the corner onto the Battlement walkway, the tower just ahead.

“You sure you weren’t going so you could bat eyes at the Seeker?”

“What? No! Why woul--”

“Oh, come on!” Roslyn laughed, as she twisted the ribbon around her ponytail. “She’s scary, but she’s...well,”

“That is not the point, nor was it the reason why I was there. Save your ogling for Veronica and the Qunari mercenary’s men you drink with.” Naomi may have been the patient listener of them all, but she wasn’t without limitations. One of which was grotesque flirtations where the girls sounded like the men they spat on. It was all in good fun, but not her taste.

“Fine, fine,” Roslyn conceded, “she’s got the hots for Olivia, anyway.”

Naomi skidded her shoe heel against the stone. Hold on. Hold on just one minute.

“Olivia?”

“Yeah, Olivia. You know, the tiny blonde one of us?”

“Olivia…”

“Uh huh, the plucky one with a tattoo on her--”

“Gem?!”

“...Naomi, I mean it, reconsider the drinking on the job.”

Naomi swatted her in the arm and groaned, turning around to pace toward the battlement rail. She smacked her palm against her forehead. “Ugh! I am an idiot! A big, big idiot!”

Roslyn looked as if she were watching her friend descend into final madness. What she couldn’t have known, and what certainly would have justified her sudden onset of fury, was that it was all clicking together perfectly. The note, the “O” initial, the acidity but hesitant fondness in her face when Naomi mentioned one of Olivia’s quirky sayings. Heavens, the weird choking Olivia did when they brought her up during dinner!

“Idiot, idiot, idiot! No wonder! Ugh!” she whirled around on a dime, “how did you find out?!”

Roslyn jumped. “I! Shit! I just...well, I saw them the night they rescued us.”

“You saw them? Do what?”

“Nothing, just...just the…”

“Roslyn, this is important,” Naomi rushed up to her and grabbed her by the shoulders, though the several inches of height Roslyn had on her lessened the intimidation. “Do you remember a time when Olivia ever had genuine feelings for someone? Ever?!”

In her arms, Roslyn was bracing as straight as a bean pole. She cringed, but gave it an honest try.

“Er...well...shit.”

“Exactly! And The Seeker, she’s...she’s…” oh, great. From one bizarre motivation to another. First with the hunch she had for the book, and now this? Too much for one day. Too little pay. Too few breaks. She let go of Lyn and put a hand to her hip, rubbing her chin.

“She’s what?”

“She’s...a person...whom...Olivia could have feelings for. That is what I was saying.”

“Pft, yeah,” Lyn laughed, “for the woman they call the Maker’s Matron?”

Naomi scowled with the gentility only she could infuse. “Roslyn.”

“...okay, fine, I call her that. But the point still stands. Olivia is a lot of things, but she’s not traditional. A woman like the Seeker would only make her want to burn a Cha--you know, nevermind.”

Naomi continued to glare. “We have no idea what they have gone through. I do not think you have the full story.” She looked down the other side of the Battlements, ensuring no one was within earshot, before she pulled Roslyn in. “If Theia finds out, she’s going to do the same thing she did when Odessa came along.”

Roslyn snorted. “Naomi, we were kids.”

“If we were old enough for Veronica to drunkenly pin up her bloody undergarments on the altar statue of Andraste as protest for lack of proper laundering for the women’s wing….”

“...we were...young. Shit, remember when she wanted to write ‘let us wash our smallclothes or else blood magic?’”

“That is not my point!” They commenced walking urgently toward the tower. “If Olivia has a chance at happiness, at having something...worthwhile, she deserves to have it. We have to make sure it doesn’t catch fire before they let it. She will not admit it to us, but that is okay. We have to spin it, or she’ll allow the fanfare to spook her. If you hear anything in the barracks, offer up something else as gossip. If I hear anything in the tower, I’ll do the same. Got it?”

“Aye, General flowers.”

Naomi pulled away and saw Lyn’s smile. Modest, but charming. It gave her leave to release stress from her lungs. She adjusted her gown and hair to save face. On the other side of the big door was a dozen sharp, clever, and tired-eyed Mages looking for anything and everything to pick apart with their critical thinking skills. The hot bed of rumors, despite the commitment to objective research.

“Well, gird your loins,” Roslyn rubbed her chin free of caked on dust. “I’m going to arm some man with a sponge and bucket and take my clothes off.”

“Ugh, Roslyn.”

“What?” she laughed, backing away from the door with a swaggering stride, rolling up her underlayer sleeves. “Magic was built to serve man, and man was made to serve me while I count my new muscles and scars.”

A crooked grin crept on Naomi’s face. “You unfathomable brute!”

“You adorable snob!”

She watched her for as long as she faced her, until she turned around for the stairs. One last deep breath of confidence before she would return to the hive and continue buzzing with the other worker bees. Her fingers found the string hanging from the rim of her sleeve. Reaching for the knob, a final conclusion flooded between her temples:

_She depends on you. A sister she never had._

Coming in, there were a few people on the ground floor busy with their own projects. Sometimes it was nauseating to hear the bragging, but others it was invigorating to be in a place where productivity was not a means of suppressing imprisonment. Walking up to the second floor where Olivia’s desk -- a space she generously was lending to Naomi whenever she needed -- she found everything unchanged with the exception of one folded and sealed note. Picking it up, it had the seal of the Inquisition Commander on it.

She turned and sat back on the table edge, snapping the note open and unfolding it casually. Her smile reappeared.

_“Naomi,_

_Thank you. Sleep has improved, and I find it easier to focus. I have passed on orders for it to be disbursed among the soldiers should any of them need it. Know that I was only joking when I said I wished it was less sour, though I appreciate the change._

_Kind regards.”_

While Olivia dove and dodged the political attacks against her for her plans and initiatives, Naomi would be one of many who saw the truth. It took her entire life to get to a point where she could do for people what she always wanted to do, since the time she was giving friends and small animals plants to eat, hoping something would work. As passive as she was, there was nothing she wouldn’t use to protect it now. She had plans, and she was tired of them simply being plans. No more Templar guards, no more sequestered life shut in, no more only being allowed to keep her captors alive and believe in their victimhood.

She closed the letter and held it to her chest, shutting her eyes. Roslyn’s joke echoed in her mind, of Olivia burning a Chantry like that one Mage, Anders, did in Kirkwall. Naomi was one of the many Mages who quietly believed they would one day have to do the same in order to know even the chance of a life worth living. What a man of light skin could do and barely endure with his life, a woman of her complexion and origins could not. But the past only mean there was more and better things yet to come, and she would take the risks.

Putting the letter away somewhere safe to look back on, she pulled paper and a quill for a letter of her own. Perhaps one Mage of the Inner Circle had usurped her needed resources. But she knew of another who would be more likely to share. The only thing that changed from having more obstacles was needing a steadier heart, and she would deliver for the sake of herself.

_"To the Quarters of Madame de Fer..."_


	65. Would You Follow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to the days of the Foxes on the run in Ferelden. The first time Olivia ever exchanged love for money, only to find more was necessary to do right by her conscience. Blood on her hands raises the stakes for her and her friendships as the woman known as the Black Dove is born into the horrors of a culture war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Violence, murder, light description of gore, sexual activity and objectification.

_Autumn, 9:40 Dragon. Somewhere on the coast Ferelden --_

It all smelled of sweat and old, left out ale. What were you to expect from such a place? Fereldans loved things that smelled the same: sex, hunt, dogs, and drink. It may have been long since she felt any loyalty to her nation, but her reluctance to appreciate anything on the other side of the borderlands had preserved itself well. Unlike ale. 

He smelled like it, too. However, there was something else about him. A deeper sense of pompous refinement. A man who, by sound, sight, and smell, enjoyed traveling to big cities to revel. He was the kind of man to bask in the touch of women, men, everyone, as they bathed and exalted him for a night. One night only. It was all it took, wasn’t it? Kings were born in killed in the span of single nights. What could a middle-aged, somewhat wealthy looking man harm if he wanted to play pretend?

He was the first. He mounted and humped like a careless, artless soul, but he was clean and had no sentimentality to exhaust her afterward. He wanted his pretend game, and luckily for him, he had set his sights on the one woman in the tavern who’s upbringing compelled her to play and play well. She almost didn’t have to try, which was good, because she had never been in such a circumstance before. Or, maybe she had, and that was the heartbreaking part.

The pay was good. He tipped, oddly enough. That was where the due diligence ended though, as he wouldn’t let her stay in the room past the point of her service. Still soiled and wearing his sweat, she was forcefully asked to redress herself and go. She didn’t talk much. She wasn’t interesting. A pretty, coquettish face. When he said his name was, she only blinked and grinned, like a virgin being bedded on her wedding night. All men had their fetishes and interests, but her kind of love may have reminded him too much of home.

The way her thighs slid against each other under her ‘borrowed’ night dress, like the way they did after she loved men in the Circle, made her stomach turn. Only then, she had something to distract her -- something to walk away with. It kept her company during the brief interlude in the hallway of the Tavern’s second floor while voices moaned, yelled, and rhythmically pounded against the walls. It was disturbing. Her shoes didn’t fit right. She wanted to go home, to have someone take her home. She wanted a home to go to. And then, when she came around the corner to see a woman with pearly hair and a hooded coat that was two sizes too big. Home was then improvised.

“Psst!” was all that was needed.

Theia turned and held back a gasp. Her eyes were round and wide as if Olivia were a creature cut loose. For about an hour she had had to keep to herself, keep to the shadowed margins. But she would never refuse to follow Olivia down any hallway, and so the courtesy was without grief.

Swiftly, she clung her dagger and joined up with her. Together they vanished down the hall again, finding a dead end with a pantry door. Linens and piss pots, but enough for the two of them to stow away and hide for a moment of recollection. Stuffing themselves inside and composing their breathing, Theia grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Did it happen?”

“Yes, yes i-it did.”

She began bobbing and ducking to evaluate her, turning her to either side as she stood in place. “Did...did he hurt you?”

“Nothing besides...I...well,” Olivia swallowed, feeling the burlap of the tiny purse bag she was holding underneath her dress and to her stomach. “It’s no concern.”

Theia locked eyes with her. “Gem, if he hurt you he--”

“He what? Has to pay extra?”

The sliding stream of something liquid slid down the inside of her thigh as she and the woman she trusted with her life stared at each other, at an impasse. It was cold, and slow. She pressed her knees to each other and felt it stick.

“Look,” she shook her head, hurriedly pulling the coin bag out from under the fabric. “I got money, and that is the bottom line. We can eat something, or...or buy something.” She held up the bag in her palm between their two huddled chests. It wasn’t the biggest one in the world, but it was filled to the brim, and just the motion of her holding it up made it chime. Theia’s eyes lit up, and her mouth went agape.

“Holy shit, you were right.”

Grasping at humor like steam, she feigned a grin. Theia was too frantic to notice the lack of sincerity. “Since when am I wrong?”

“Ugh, don’t play with me now, alright? I thought I’d have to come in there an--”

A slam followed by a man’s voice thundered from the other side of the door, joined by heavy and uneven footsteps. Theia cut herself off and took hold of her, pulling her to her chest as she wrapped an arm around. They drew closer as they watched the sliver of light at the bottom of the door flicker, shadows moving across.

“Bothell! I told you, keep your shit together!”

“Ah, shite, would you sod off, Tucker? I’m in for a bit of fun!”

“Fun’s got nothing to do with tonight. Andras wants us in line and out of trouble. Get off her and get back downstairs.”

Olivia went cold as the blasted name was spoken again. A name she had hoped never to have anything to with after shutting the door. Alas, it seemed the evening had more in store. More scuffing of boots across the floor as a door creaked. A man groaned and slammed it shut.

“Bothell, what does a man gotta do to kill you?” a resentful but clumsy whisper of a drunken man, followed by a shoving sound.

“Mages aren’t like the stags. You can’t drink yourself mad and celebrate before the kill. Go down there and get some water before you piss yourself.”

“Agh! Fuck off!”

“Unlike you, I can manage that. Go, I mean it. Andras is going to have us out to hunt at sunrise.”

Footsteps became further and further away, stumbling followed by steady pacing. Left in the wake, Theia and Olivia stayed frozen in their embrace, unwilling to let eachother go after what they just heard.

“That name,” Olivia finally managed to spit out, “that’s the man I was with. He’s contracted to hunt Mages?”

Theia leaned against the shelf at her back. “He couldn’t sense you like a Templar could.”

“Yes, but he’s still going after us. What if it’s us he’s after?”

“I doubt that. He wouldn’t have let you go.”

Olivia stood back a half-step, the only room she had in the forsaken hideaway they had chosen. The scourge of the Mage-Templar conflict had followed them in their wanderings. No surprise, except now she had allowed it to see her naked and treat her like a commodity. Again.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Theia said as she grabbed her around her elbow. “I see that look in your eye.”

“If I let him go, he’s going t--”

“He’ll be like the hundreds of others that want to get at us for fun. You got money from him, that’s enough! You’ve done enough!”

Olivia held the purse up and shook it angrily. “And what is my prize if I eat and another Mage is murdered in broad daylight? If not me, it will be someone else!”

Theia’s grip on her stiffened and sent a shiver through her, as if she were contemplating subduing her using ice rather than words. Her face began to glow. Stubbornness and intemperance never made easy friends.

“So, what are you going to do? Walk in and slaughter him like he’s a sitting duck?”

“I don’t know...maybe...maybe I--”

“Gem.” In her tone and face she said everything without words: _You’ve never killed before, and you do not know what you suggest._ Olivia hardly did anything before that night when she nudged her in the arm and pointed to the Harlots draping themselves across the tavern bar. From the shore and into the deep end of the sea she had gone, and still ready to swim farther away from her friend’s grip. This wasn’t a time, though, for precedent. The image of him suspended over her, his sweat dripping onto her chest and face, seethed in her. The way he breathed, groaned like an animal biting down on something juicy. The way he swatted her out of bed on her ass.

It wasn’t right for an innocent person’s last sight to be that repugnant. In a swoop of momentum she shoved the coin purse into Theia’s chest, and with her other hand grabbed the dagger out of her hand.

“Stay here or follow and be my backup. The choice is yours.”

“Are you mad?”

“I said the choice is yours.”

There was no time for patient deliberation on her end. She slid out the door and calmed herself, seeing no one and nothing waiting for her in the hallway. Doors were shut and commotion echoing from below. Hollering and singing, perfect noise to cover a struggle. As she marched on the balls of her feet down, veering close to the wall just in case, she turned back only once. Theia was standing against the door to the pantry, now less ‘traditionally’ armed, but lethal all the same. You wouldn’t have known by the look of fear in her eyes and the cowering in her shoulders, though, as she watched one of her closest friends walk full-speed into something inexplicably dreadful.

Olivia turned back ahead and continued on. The door was slightly shorter and more skewed than all the rest. The third one down from the corner leading to the stairs. Unlocked because of overconfidence. When she came to it, she looked down at the dagger and contemplated.

_Simple. Afraid._

This wouldn’t just be clumsy. It wouldn’t be bloody and enraged, scrambling for mortality. She took a breath through her nose, deep as she could get, and held the dagger to her back. She then knocked on the door three timid times.

“Ergh, what is it?!” muffled, but a ruckus still. Before she could answer, the door swung open to reveal him with his face half-shaved and the other glistening with blade soap.

“Ugh, you there, what, I didn’t pay enough?” he licked the side of his lip, mocking. He stared at her chest more than her face. For not being impressed, he was certainly fixated.

Olivia tucked her chin and shook it side to side. “No, Ser. In fact, I...I came to ask if you wanted...wanted anything else?”

A quick up-and-down evaluation of her, and he only huffed. “You think you’re good enough to offer seconds?”

“That is not my place to answer, Ser.”

“Damn right it isn’t. Fuck.”

The man shoved the door open and stepped back, turning around back towards the table with a wash basin. A cloth hung off the side of it, and positioned next to it was a doused small carving knife. His boots hit the wood below their feet with indignance. She took a few steps inside, pairing her hands behind her back. It had to be obvious.

“I’m busy, in case you couldn’t tell.” He fell back on the chair, tipping it onto its back two legs. He propped his legs up on the corner of the table and crossed them. “But maybe you’re a harlot who knows how to beg better than she fucks.”

She swallowed stiff and slow, and her lips parted just slightly. “I...don’t. But I…” she fell back, reaching and pushing the door closed, not daring to take her eyes off of him. It crept into a clicking sound, signifying sweet privacy.

“But I do know h-how to shave.”

His silence was better than his talk-back. It meant he was trying to be clever somehow, someway. Or maybe he was trying to decide between what was sheathed in his pants or in his belt how to handle her. Either way, she took the opportunity and came forward.

And then, she revealed the dagger the kept lazily concealed, holding it like she would a dirty and used tissue between her thumb and index finger.

“I was told to come up here with this and...and harm you,” she choked out, “they said they’d hurt my friend if I didn’t.”

He furrowed one brow as his eyes fastened on the weapon. She held it out to him, but he didn’t take it. Instead he rubbed his chin, the side with bristled hairs still remaining. As his finger pressed across his mouth he started to chuckle.

“Heh,” he rumbled his chest, “what a piece of work. Asking a Harlot to do a man’s work.” He leaned forward and swiped it out of her hand, while she flinched and leaned away. Eyes on the floor, ashamed, begotten without a fight.

With one finger on the top of the hilt and the other on the blade tip, he swiveled his tongue on the bottom of his mouth.

“Do you want to kill me?”

“I...I don’t know you, Ser.”

“Hmph. That does not stop a lot of people.”

“I just don’t want my friend to be hurt. I--”

“Oh, hush. Nothing will happen to your friend. Nothing she doesn’t already deserve, if she’s similar company to you.”

She peeked up at him from her skittish pose. He was not that old, perhaps no more than 40. Black curly hair but paler skin, and slight grey at the temples. His facial hair wasn’t long enough to show a matching discoloration, but she could guess. It was also visible in the lines darting out from the corners of his eyes, matching the ones on his frowning expression. Broadly built, some might even call him handsome, but the way he expressed himself soured all endearment.

“I’m a...a whore, ser, we don’t...we don’t do what you do,” she struggled with that word. A hint of morality, or perhaps cowardice. The two could get easily confused.

“You obviously haven’t been to any of the major port cities, then. Or met a Bard worth their pay.” He tossed the dagger to the table and grabbed the rag. Reaching into the basin, he pulled out the bar of fatty soap he had been using, and rubbed it against the unshaved side of his face.

“Do I have to do it all myself, then, woman?”

She was in. He and his men must have exchanged drunken death threats more regularly than was healthy. Olivia, who was toiling with her dress skirt, kept out of sorts for just another annoying few seconds. Then, getting the memo, she approached. Hurried at first, but then curbing her exuberance. She grabbed the carving knife and paused.

“Are you sure, ser?” reminding him he had the authority.

He groaned. “Stop sniveling, woman. Get on with it,” he commanded and tossed the soap back in the bucket. The clunking sound disturbed her, as did the light splash of water on her arms. She blinked fast and came closer, wiping the knife on either side against her dress fabric.

“Yes, of cour--gah!” she quaked as he grabbed her, a hand on either hip. His palms were big enough to grap around her poking pelvic bones, bare after almost two months of sparse eating. He pulled her like a person would a lap dog, until she was forced to swing a leg around his lap and straddle him. She grasped the knife to her chest along with her arms and waited for him to place her just so -- just where he would want her.

“Ah, why play coy with goods you’ve already sampled?” he chuckled to himself, sliding those dictator’s hands up her skirts and her thighs.

She watched him, brows creased together. She let out a cracked giggle through her straight lips.

“Get on with it,” he added, easing back into his chair and re-crossing his legs. He was easily twice her size and probably three times as strong. Healthy, well-fed, well-drank. Cocky, and ready to kill in the morning.

She met his eyes with hers and placed her thumb on his chin, tilting his head to the side. In front of her was a whole cheek to go to work with. The sensation of cutting, stinging bristles against her mouth and face, which an hour ago she worried would leave marks due to his forcefulness. Now, she was cleaning them up. Ironically, she felt robbed of a better experience, as if one could be picky with the traumas they subjected themselves to.

The first stroke was clean. Effortless, almost. Like an old habit. She peeked at the collected hair and soap along the blade edge before shaking it out in the water. Even he poked an eye open.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered before closing it again. “You do know something.”

She grinned coyly, holding the blade up and seeing her reflection in it. “I don’t lie.”

“Hmph,” he grunted, “all women lie.”

Her lips parted as she pushed her tongue to the top of her mouth. Another swipe up his cheekbone, another path forged of bare and clean skin. “Then I never learned how to, Ser.”

“Bullshit. You did just then.”

“Did I? I apologize.”

He tilted his chin up further towards the ceiling. His hands went up higher, towards her hips and inward. Her back arched in reaction, sickened the way livestock must feel to be felt and appraised for the meat on their bones.

Another swipe, dunk, and shake of the knife. Another ill-taken breath that didn’t fill enough of her chest to ease her pulse. Then another swipe, his cheek now mostly done. After that there would be no means of distracting him save for what she was able to do before. His hands would be even more forceful, even more occupational. She wouldn’t have the advantage. Shit, she didn’t have the advantage then. Perhaps Theia had been right, and it was all a botched job before it even began. If she shaved him and played coy she could get herself back out the door, off and running. Maybe she was not the murderous renegade her friends could be.

“I suppose you learned this doing it for your shit father, huh?”

Her grip on the blade tightened and heated as she readied herself for the final slide of it near his ear. That heat mirrored itself in her ears and cheeks. Doubt melted as fast as it was born.

“...No. I didn’t,” she fought to soften through grit teeth.

“Heh. He must have been true shit then. Lover?” a smile was creeping on his face. Playful and sickening.

Lower now. “No.”

“...shitty brother?”

Even lower. “No.”

He exhaled impatiently and looked up, his lips sputtering. “Damn, woman, what then? On your own ugly fa--gAHHH!”

The knife had been set aside. Instead, she took hold of both sides of his jaw and pressed, pressed down like a branding iron against his skin. His disgusting conjecture turned to screaming as he kicked up and sideways, pushing them backward completely onto the ground. While he flailed underneath her she secured her thighs around his waist and anchored him down with every last ounce she had left on her body. Turns out, a great way to make a man forget his own strength is to scald his face to within an inch of his life. Especially if you stuck your longest fingers into his ears and blew out his eardrums.

“Plea-pleAS--AHHH! No--oahhhh!”

The screaming was loud, but it didn’t last long. She covered his mouth and surged her power. The scent of burning flesh laced the white-grey smoke emanated from him. His hair caught fire and burned like paper embers, curls eviscerating, grey temples no longer charming.

All the while his eyes were wide and staring into hers, providing the hypnotizing locus for her. In them she saw everything she could only feel when men terrorized her: the reflection of unadulterated terror and helplessness.

He was pulling at her nightdress, his boots scraping at the floor. A plea for mercy became a pouring, as his tongue was rapidly becoming like candle wax. By virtue of fearful strength he was moving them inch by painful, agonizing inch, but it wouldn’t be enough. To further her grip she hooked her thumbs on the corners of his mouth, pulling and clenching down.

Her lips were pressed closed as she stared down at him, nose parallel to the ground, shoulders locked in their tension.

The fighting lessened to squirming. It was a bad way to go. Her hands were falling deeper and deeper into his flesh, to the point where the tops of her palms felt bone. Running out of him, she leaned over, further, as he had done when he had her. As loveless and unaffectionate. Through the streams of smoke she locked on the remaining sentient light in his eyes and smiled:

“You beg better than you fuck.”

One flat hand went over his face, feeling the mixture of blood, body oils, and spit. Her favorite fire enchantment, the one that made her eyes go white hot and her hands turn into torches. It would only take a moment. Days after, she would wonder if it counted as a mercy killing if the mercy was for her own sake. And thus, his last breath was a bubbling. 

As soon as his head fell limp to the side she flung herself from him. The blood had only pooled so much -- a morbid benefit to killing via cauterization. She fell onto her ass and scrambled back with her arms and legs, panting. She wouldn't have been able to expend much longer. She could hear her teachers in her head telling her to mind her mana, to be resourceful rather than rigorous. With a new panic in her chest she looked around the room, for reasons she could not understand. What, was someone going to pop out from under the bed and help her, like some Magi lifeline or holy being from her childhoodbedtime stories?

Across the way, on a smaller table, a small chest had been left open. She pressed her feet to the floor and got up to a crouching position, eyes still on the objects that were placed in front of it. They were small, but they were...glowing? No. 

No, no, no. 

Standing up, she wiped her mouth and stained her face with blood and tissue. This mercenary wasn't just paid off by some bureaucratic power to go wild with his violent Mage-hating. He was given a shortcut. The Templars must have been so busy falling apart and reducing to barbarianism to handle their 'duties' just to themselves. With all that she had -- which, wasn't much -- she sent herself to the table and grabbed every last one of them. There were five. Small, too small to be high-ranking. They were for Apprentices. Likely young, likely running. Holding them in her palms she clutched them with a lethal grip. Taking in an inhale of mercy, she drew upon every last inch of her abilities. The only good Phylacteries were the ones floating as ash in the wind. 

\--

When she finally arose from the room, her hands and arms cleaned but cold from water, the echoing jubilation disoriented her. The music was still playing. People were still hollering. If she was in Orlais, this would be considered an interlude in a Tuesday evening. But there was no music, no gown to coat the terror. She stepped out towards the stairs, zoning out until only the warm and soft lights and shadows made any sense. Air left her lungs as she was pulled back by the arm, yanked like a rag doll into the corner.

“Gem...Gem, no...Gem…” Theia was repeating like a worried older sister having rescued their kid sibling from almost falling through the ice. She was patting and tilting her, checking for injury. Olivia only blinked and stared at the wall behind her. Hands on her had become so sordid as a concept in such a short and unforgiving night.

“Gem!” Theia grabbed her face and looked dead ahead at her, “say something, please.”

So this was the way it felt when she grabbed him. How funny.

She focused on Theia’s purple irises. No one ever wondered why they were that color, or thought to ask. People should have asked. Maybe there was a story. If you thought about it, everyone had a story behind the color of their eyes. He must have. Maybe they were his Mother’s.

“T-Theia…” she whispered, throat dry. “I’m okay.”

“Sweet Maker,” Theia cursed and pulled her in. “I can’t believe you, you stubborn...you...you impossible..”

“I’m fine.”

“I know, I just...Maker’s ass…”

She pressed her head against Theia’s shoulder, the visage of the hallway foggier than she remembered. Foggy, then clear, then foggy again.

“Theia, my...my energy…”

“...Oh, shit!” Theia said through her teeth, pulling her further into the shadow of the hallway. “Just breathe, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

“I’m going to...to pass out...You have to get us...get us out of here.”

“I’m gonna, okay? I promise. Just please...please just…”

The last few words were echoes. For a brief few breaths, colors became like tastes, and tastes like sounds. Everything went out of shape. She expended so much on one man’s head? Or had she just been that out of shape?

No wondering, no use. Welcomed numbness. 

“Theia...get the dagger.”

\--

Before consciousness returned to her, the malicious wisdoms did. Circling, like a duel-ready enemy with a weapon in hand --

_Orlesian women do not love, they persuade._

_They do not concede, they counter._

_They do not mistake, they master._

Then, yelling.

“I can’t believe you let her go just like that.” Naomi. She cared. She cared so much.

“I tried to stop her! She was bent!”

“Theia, she is a pebble’s worth of weight soaking wet. You’re telling me she was unstoppable?” Roslyn. Crass, but pointed.

“We can’t just enchant like that in public. She could have screwed you both! And we have limited resources to recover from using our abilities.” Naomi again.

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I got her out, I got us out. That’s what matters!”

The weight of her eyelids increased, but with them so did her ability to open them. When she did, there was nothing but firelight. Firelight of a different and better kind, casting streaks of orange and red light through the cheap tent they had managed to collect on their way. The tent that was everything: their bed, their hiding place, and now, her recovery shelter.

Around the campfire were four figures standing tall, some with hands on hips, overs not. Vision wasn’t foggy anymore, but tired still.

“They’re going to know it was a Mage. How else do you burn a man’s head like a cooked egg?” Veronica now, chiming in with her blunt-force appraisals.

“We were planning on moving on anyway,” Theia said as a cheap way to comfort.

Naomi’s curls and the deep green of her gown identified her as she stepped to the side, back towards the tent. “Well, now we are on the run.”

“When aren’t we on the run?”

“Theia, the point is to not be eventually! Or is our plan now to become a group of traveling assassins?”

“I know that! I’m just saying, we aren’t safe regardless if we kill or not.”

Olivia pulled herself up from the sprawled thin blankets she was laid out on. Her muscles were sore, but not unuseable. Whatever Naomi had improvised with in lieu of healer’s tonics was a good enough substitute. Or placebo.

“Please...stop it,” she called out, rubbing her eyes. “Please.”

All four of them turned heads like a group of deer alarmed by a cracked twig in the distance. It was almost laughable.

“Olivia!” Naomi rushed to her at once, falling onto her knees and landing less than a foot from her She put her hand to her forehead and bit her lip. “Goodness, you bounce back.”

Olivia smirked. “I try.”

“Maker’s breath, Gem.” Veronica was the second to come around, folding her arms as she drew nearer. Soon, all of them were assembled around the opening of the tent, Theia crouching onto her haunches.

“I know,” she replied, rubbing her side. Rougher, thicker fabric, like a coat. The nightdress was nowhere to be seen, replaced with oversized breeches Roslyn had been wearing the previous day and a tunic shirt.

“What were you thinking?” Roslyn asked, “the man probably had enough weapons with him to outfit a small contingent, not to mention friends.”

“I--”

“And he was as tall as the fucking tavern beams,” Theia added.

“Listen, I wa--”

“A mercenary isn’t a lightweight, either. He probably could have snapped her in half if he caught a clu--”

“Would you all shut up!” The discourse was already nauseating. Exploring the hundreds of ways the man could have overcome her and not thought twice about it was hardly good for recovery morale. If it was one thing the girls were good at, though, it was turning a bleak situation into talk over tea and biscuits. Damn, tea and biscuits sounded good.

They all perked to attention, brows raised or lowered depending on the amount of skepticism in their personalities.

“Agh, I’m okay,” Olivia groaned and rubbed her head. “I am fine. He is dead. It’s done.”

Naomi placed a hand on her shoulder. “Olivia, you know we are glad you are safe. But it is not a shut book. You...you…”

“You killed a mercenary like a druffalo levels a grass patch, Gem. Loud and out for the world to see. That wouldn’t matter...much...but you did it with magic.”

“Yes, thank you, Roslyn,” Naomi sighed and sat back.

“I know what I did. I killed someone who would have killed others,” she tucked her legs under her. “I know it wasn’t all of them, but…”

Theia stood up and walked back towards the fire. “You took out the information they needed.”

Veronica scoffed, a sharp snort through her nose. “Theia, you can’t possibly be indulging this shit with nuance.”

“I’m not indulging it if it’s there, Veronica! We heard his lackeys. He had notes that they were waiting on in the morning. She’s prevented them from knowing where to go from here. They’ll be set back.”

“Set back, but not out of commission!” Roslyn joined in. “And if anything, their noses will be even deeper in the dirt looking for our kind.”

“They have to sober up and find him first. That gives us time.”

“Time for what? To run like scavengers in the night?” Veronica scooted the ground with her boot heel. “You let Gem risk her life! Twice! And now you’re sitting back smug because it didn’t end in disaster! Gem isn’t a combat Mage like Roslyn, or a hunter like me, or a freak of nature like you! She’s--”

“She’s capable, Veronica!”

“Would you both stop!” Naomi yelled, a rarity for her. She rubbed her thigh and glared at them, still holding onto Olivia’s shoulder. “You’re talking like she isn’t here to speak for herself.”

For as kind-hearted as that intervention was, all it did was place pressure on Olivia to account for what she did off the cuff. Her stomach did a flip as they all turned to look down at her again. She warily glanced at Naomi, who looked back with encouragement and a grin. Always willing to push hope in times of dire stress.

“I...look,” she ran her hand through the side of her hair, tucking it behind her ear, “I know what I did was impulsive and...wrong.” _Though I will not say sorry in my victim's honor._ “I just...I wanted to protect someone. I didn’t want to walk out of there having benefited from someone being alive, someone who...who would go on to do horrible things. That is all. It wasn’t thought out, and it wasn’t smart. But I did it...and...and I’m not regretful. I was only doing what I would want someone else to do if they had the opportunity to save someone I loved from being hunted.”

All but Veronica’s expression softened, faced with the truth of her logic. Or lack thereof. Rather than give in, Veronica turned away and looked up at the sky, a soft groan escaping her direction.

“Veronica,” Roslyn warned, “she’s one of us.”

“I know that.”

“If you and I can kill in defense, so can she.”

“You are both looking at me like I hate her, and that is not the truth!” Veronica looked back, waving a hand at them. “I’m upset that she was going to possibly die tonight because they treated a murder whim like a sweet craving. Do not condemn me for being the only one with sense here!”

“Veronica.” Naomi chided in her simple, but poignant fashion. Just enough to cause them all to quiet down again, if only temporarily.

In the shallow reprieve, Olivia had a chance to take a breath. It stung, but it helped. Pulling herself further up, until she was able to stand and creep out from her cot, she wobbed until she stood quiet. The heat of the fire was a welcome wave of benign sweat.

“Veronica, I might not be sorry for doing it, but I am sorry to have worried you. Please, don’t be mad.”

Veronica stayed locked on the tree line, pouting but not completely heartless in doing so. Her eyes shifted left to right as she sucked on her teeth. “I’m not mad at you, Gem,” she answered, pointedly looking in Theia’s direction.

Theia’s shoulders fell. “Oh, come on.”

“Save it, Theia. Save it for coming up with this brilliant escape plan you clearly have, since you’re so clever. If you see fit to tell yourself you can save your friends from anything, then do it. Now you have to save all of us.”

With that, Veronica walked off, grabbing her bow along the way from where it rested against a fallen log. Not to shoot, to be sure. Anger fits were more for cutting down and whacking things with it. It was a sufficient stand-in tantrum when a Mage couldn’t set things on fire or snap things in half with ice.

“Great,” Roslyn huffed, “if she breaks that thing out of anger who knows how we’re going to kill food.”

Theia’s hands went to her sides. “We’ll manage.”

“Oh, I know we will,” Lyn implicitly threatened, grabbing her small sword. Slightly aged and rusted, but sharp enough. “I’m going to find her before she brings more attention to our part of the woods. You know, in case our clucking like chickens with a wolf up our asses wasn’t enough.”

As Roslyn walked past, she shot Olivia a more sympathetic face, but it wasn’t enough to satiate Olivia’s nerves. In her eyes was the same fear and aggravation that was in Veronica’s, only with a touch more modesty. And why not? They were both right. Olivia had gambled with their safety, made a choice on behalf of all of them.

But that was the thing. She had done it. So why was everything subjecting Theia to the heat?

Naomi exited the tent and stood between them. “You should be careful. I don’t know if what I gave you is potent this quick. Not completely.”

“I will.”

Contented enough, Naomi then looked the other way. “Just let them blow smoke. They will tire and realize we all have to work together.”

Theia pivoted towards the fire and sighed heavily, her hands rubbing up and back across her head of white hair. If it had not been colored by family trait, surely the stress from their travels would have turned it all that way. She drug her feet towards the log by the fire and planted herself there, knees wide.

Olivia followed after her, slower as the looming dizziness curtailed her. But once she made it, she sat next to her, hip-to-hip, and cradled her arms to her body.

“I’m sorry, Theia.”

A sorry smirk left Theia’s lips. “Don’t worry, Gem. It’s not your fault.”

“It is, though. I...I wanted to kill him.”

Theia shot a look at her from her periphery. “No one with a heart like yours wants to kill, Olivia. You are too good for that.”

As Olivia looked into the fire, the patron element of her abilities, all she could see reflected in its dancing was affirmation. Punishable affirmation, but affirmation all the same. That wasn't what you saw when you weren't meant for the choice you made. Quite the opposite, actually. The objective cruelty of her crimes fell short of discouraging. Although, no one would believe her for her smugness. No one was going to see it in her, so why fight and insist? In the only court of opinion that mattered -- that of her companions -- she had, for all intents and purposes, gotten away with murder. 

“...I’m still sorry.”

“We’ll figure it out. You won’t have to do this again. It was foolish to do it the first time.”

Olivia’s gaze wandered down toward her belt, and it was there the coin purse -- that blasted coin purse -- was still double-knotted to her. A promise of food or whatever else, purchasable rather than having to be robbed.

“Theia…” she muttered, unable to look away from it. “don’t say that.”

Theia looked back at her, in a similarly anxious way she had done in the pantry where they hid. Olivia wouldn’t have to explain a word of what she was thinking. It was awful, but it was clear. Sometime in the future when the conflict wasn’t so hurtful, and the tempers weren’t so flared, Olivia would bring this up again. And, in doing so, she would ask the same thing she did before grabbing a weapon and heading into the thick of it: If I went, would you follow?

After a moment or two, Olivia preferred to lean her head on her friend’s shoulder rather than to argue with looks. Her hands laid flat and parallel down her lap, still discolored from the residue of human ash and concentrated burning. Nothing that wouldn’t be rubbed off in a day. As for what made them that way, time would tell. If there was a Maker to teach her a lesson or strike her down outright, surely this would provoke it.

“Wait, did you get the dagger?”

Theia chuckled through her nose. “No. You clearly did not have a need for it.”


	66. Mistakes Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the Inquisition's departure to the Emerald Graves draws ever-nearer. The Inquisitor has staved off an important call on account of her sensitivity to Cassandra's grief, hoping that her patience will be rewarded. New connections are made in the pursuit of magical conjecture, combining old and new friends.

Inter-fortress correspondence from the Inquisitor’s desk to Seeker Pentaghast --

2nd Wintermarch, 9:42

Cassandra,

I feel it poor manners to not send this on the day of Annum, since the holiday dictates we show care for others and their lot in life. I was unsure whether you would want that. I just wanted to send a note to you. Regardless of what transpired back at camp, if you need someone to talk to about what you found, I am open to listening. I can already hear you criticizing my capability for doing so. I thought I would offer.

Best to you, and happy belated Annum.

\- O

5th Wintermarch, 9:42

Cassandra,

The Emerald Graves expedition will depart Skyhold next week. I am sure you know this. I know we discussed it with the understanding that you would be traveling with us in the first group, but I wish you would talk to me about your circumstance. You do not have to accept my previous offer, but an affirmation that you feel steady enough would be greatly appreciated by both myself at the Council. As soon as possible, please. You know where to find me.

They are awaiting my decision on my assembled team. I would like to know whether that includes you.

Thank you, and I wish you the best.

\- O

7 Wintermarch, 9:42

Cassandra,

I am sorry. I regret losing my control. It was unfair of me to place that weight on you on top of what you were already dealing with, and you needed someone to be there. I just want you to talk to me, about anything. It does not have to be about the tome, or the Seekers. We were friends before I lost my senses. It has been too long since I last heard you laugh. This time I’ll venture to accomplish it without insulting everything precious to you.

I know you well enough that if I make the decision you are forcing me to make, you will be angry. I cannot keep you from the consequences of your distancing from me forever.

Please.

\- O

\--

It had stormed overnight, blanketing the terrain in about two feet of snow that crackled under feet like eggshells. Enough for Olivia to wear gloves, a cowl hood, and double stockings underneath her knee-high riding boots out to the field where morning cavalry training took place. The morning’s routine was not for her own education, but for the small group of Mages and trainees who had little-to-know previous experience in riding. Dennett may have had the honorific of “Master,” but even he could not be in two places at once. Besides, f he could, he certainly wouldn’t choose a small valley in the Frostbacks at dawn. That was an honor for the Inquisitor herself, and one she took for posterity.

Admittedly, it was rather beautiful the way the sun cast light on the snow, making it sparkle like sewn gown fabric with hundreds of thousands of crystals. Less majestic when you had to track a gaggle of riders and their posture, worried faces, and stiff hand positions.

“Arden, give the animal his head!” she commanded, standing in the center of their orbiting oval around her. “Yes, let him relax his neck a bit. Good.”

From the tree line, a figure armored and blonde-headed was marching out through the drift. The Commander, probably from overseeing morning conditioning further down the clearing. His metalled legs cut through the patch she had led through with the horses behind her less than an hour prior, but the ice still begged for caution. In a rare show of fashionable deviation, he too had a cloak hood over his head. It made him look rather dashing.

“A good morning for me, Commander?” Olivia asked over her shoulder, hands behind her back as she stood still. Her all-black garb of breeches and long, stiff coat with a cape down to her knees made her feel particularly feisty in its warmth. Oh, and a stiff collar lined with silver thread. Nothing could stop her from relishing in it even in the early hours of the day.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her. “I see the snow has not hampered your spirits.”

“Of course not. After all, what else is my heart made of but ice?”

“Oh, Please.”

She tilted her head back and let her grin slip. “Do you have word for me?”

“Nothing that won’t be better mentioned at the Council meeting later. I know you’ve heard enough of my request for tracking lyrium transports.”

Rubbing her wrist at her back, she nodded with teasing resignation. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

“Is writing ‘please, just release the hounds on me next time,’ your way of being subtle?”

She suppressed a laugh as she steeled her gaze outward. “Uh, maybe.”

She could feel his tired smile emanating a warmth she did not wish to have fealty to. Then she would have to concede to foolishness, like maybe liking him. Or, redacting certain assumptions she had of him that no longer seemed to fit. An Orlesian confessing to being misguided before the first cup of morning tea was a Cardinal sin.

“I will oversee it personally. You have my word, as you did the other several times,” she said going forward, shoulders pushed back. “Agatha! Remember the lines. Ankles underneath your elbows, elbows underneath your shoulder.”

“You’re training them slow,” he remarked, following after her with a swinging step through the snow. “Like...”

“Like an Imperial cavalry. Yes. This is how my Father taught me, and this is how I teach.” Only after she finished her response did she look back at him. Staunch as ever, and still sensitive to the thorny sensation of his critique.

Cullen, evidenced by his shifting glance and resigned grin, picked up on it. Might as well, since she did little to conceal it.

“All due respect, Inquisitor, your father had years to instruct.”

“I am aware.”

“...very well, then.”

Steam blew into the air through her rounded, chapped lips as she stepped back closer to him, still vigilant over the riders as they slowed down to walking paces. A break, before they would move onto cantering. The look on his face, of mixed disagreement and humor, drew a crooked smile from her.

“I know what I am doing, and how to adjust routine. But a rider easily unseated is a waste of both them and their animal. They need to build the instincts and confidence.”

He folded his arms and leveled his chin lower, maybe to feel warmth from whatever it was that had been killed, gutted, and sewn unto the top of his cape. Vivienne was right to be concerned as to how often he washed that thing.

“Why not just have them ride the trails and get the feel for it?”

“They will. Soon. I want them to know how to fall, and how to stay on.”

He smiled out the side of his mouth. “Not to insult you with being Ferelden, but the best way to learn is by doing.”

She snickered. “Not to insult you with being Orlesian, but the only thing I learned by doing is unsuitable for this specific genre of riding.”

He joined her in her grumbled laughing. Natural and easygoing, though they didn’t dare make eye contact. Easiness was weird. After it had gone on too long -- too long being more than a few breaths -- Olivia cleared her throat abruptly to collect herself and the mood. He followed suit, and their smiles waned in unison. With newfound stringency they observed the riders, who were shaping up since they began training under the Inquisitor’s eye. The first lesson took place about a week after they returned from Adamant. At that time, some of them were too scared to even approach a horse. Ferelden Forders weren’t exactly stout ponies to begin with. Luckily with time, patience, and a lot of firsthand demonstrations, she had gotten almost a dozen people riding confidently out in the valley through snow. Cullen’s pragmatism wouldn’t take away the humble sense of accomplishment that inspired.

“You have yet to finalize your team for the Dales expedition,” he said after a while, his hand going to his sword hilt.

Olivia watched a rider for a spare few seconds, critiquing her shoulder position silently, before acknowledging him. Maybe she lingered more than she had to.

“We leave in, what, three days?”

“Yes. But you know Leliana. When she begins her remarks, it is difficult not to feel...compelled to be concerned.”

“The Graves are an important mission. I am taking a lot of factors into account.”

“Inquisitor.”

The knowing tone of voice he used to lace her title was fatiguing at best. How Cullen of all people managed to infer her motivations when she did little else besides bicker with him was beyond understanding. The man hardly seemed like the psychically empathetic type. But, she was not the only mouth he bantered with. When she swallowed her pride and glanced his way, he had the off-hand look she dreaded.

“Yes, Commander?”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Leliana doesn’t spare her explanations.”

“And you do not spare my nerves,” Olivia replied as she rolled her shoulders back, marking her discomfort.

“Be that as it may, despite my disinterest in her field of expertise, I am not altogether...immune. Some of your concerns are mine, after all. You need only ask.”

The Inquisitor rolled her lip into her mouth and bit down. The riders were starting to look at her, expectant of new commands. The walkout break had gone on a bit longer than she usually allowed. Satiating their curiosity she raised a hand up into the air, three fingers only. Signal for the third gait. They quickly all straightened up, sitting upright and tightening up reigns. She would judge how smoothly they would transition into the gate, their stability in their seat, and control. One by one they all kicked their rides onward into the three-beat gait, some better than others. That was to be expected, though. When the last rider transitioned into the pace, she exhaled.

“Fine. How is she?”

Cullen sighed and looked off to his left. “She has not failed in her duties training the recruits. I doubt that is surprising.”

“Not really, no.”

A beat passed, Olivia pressing her heel deeper into the snow. He made it up to her.

“She used to talk to me. Not…well, not deeply. That was never either of our particular style. But, I have noticed the lack of…agh, I don’t know what you call it.”

“Openness?”

“Not exactly…”

“Candor.”

“…Mm, you could say that. It does not quite hit the spot, though.”

“Punches?”

“Maker, no. Thankfully.”

Olivia shook her head slow. What a man of few but specific words. She had to appreciate that. “Cassandra is aloof, but she is not indirect.”

“Indeed. Much like another woman I have the...complicated privilege of working with. Where you all come from is beyond me.”

“It’s no secret, Cullen. We arise out of the bog like all world menaces. Everyone knows that.”

“Maker’s breath.”

She shot him a grin, the rim of her hood rubbing against her cheek. It was a crumb of inexplicable warmth he had given her in his simple comparison. Something she wouldn’t dare say out loud, but nevertheless show it. It was too cold to feign perfect callousness.

“Alright!” she called out, “to a walk! Gentle, now. Do not brace, but settle!”

At her command the riders showed the most unity in their sequence yet seen that morning, all in the same few steps slowing from a canter to a walk. The horses were blowing trails of steam, huffing and puffing as they settled down from the exertion. Working horses in the snow, even if they were Fereldan-bred, pulled on Olivia’s compassionate heartstrings a bit too much for her.

“Benjamin, do not let your heels fall behind you...yes, good!” she corrected, stepping forward and then around to face the Commander, her right shoulder closest to his left.

Before she could take control of the conversation again, he cut to the chase first. “You are giving her time.”

She rolled her eyes into a brief close. The crisp air stung inside her nose, a fleeting pang of sensation where she had lost it. Who knows, maybe she would have cracked a joke, and they could have laughed casually. No, he had to ruin the one strand of lucky humor she had in the morning.

“I am giving myself time. That is all. Rest assured, that will be concluded tonight at Council.”

He folded his arms, tilting his head away from her and narrowing his eyes. He looked annoyed, of all things. Not annoyed as he typically was with her, however. Something far more endearing. That annoyed her in return just as much, if not more. What right did he have to be perturbed in the first place?

His staring gave way to austerity. “Yes, Inquisitor.”

“I will see you later, Commander.”

Matching his succinctness, she then turned and waved her arm over her head. “Cool down! Walk the trails!” The last thing she gave him was a slight nod in passing, lifting her legs uncomfortably high to trek back through the snow onto the woodland path that she would stand and watch the riders stretch out their horses. Looking back once and for only a few seconds, Cullen was still where he stood alongside her. Looking out at the horizon, where the sun was traveling farther and farther up into the sky above. Was he daring to enjoy a moment?

“Thank you, Inquisitor!” a rider called out from many yards ahead. She whirled her head around and found a smiling face. She returned the pleasantry, and marched on. There was still much to be done before breakfast.

\--

The Tower was brimming with activity in preparation for the Graves, among other things. The commotion only made it better; walking to her desk from the Hall alone felt like an occasion for skipping. Finally, time allotted for getting hands sincerely dirty, for powders to explode in her face, for glorious finger burns to wrap and bandage. Never had anyone ever missed pesky wounds like the Inquisitor did. And never had anyone been so happy as her friend Naomi had been to see she would be sharing workspace that afternoon.

It only took about a half hour before the two had reduced into studious madness of the best kind: reading and notetaking, accompanied by a show for which the Inquisitor provided the song and Naomi provided the dancing. An old folk song Olivia had heard in a tavern during their travels which never left her head completely, about a lovesick couple of Bards out forging their own destinies. Each new stanza was a bogus, chaotic misadventure.

“ _And then she said, take me away/before I lose my voice and my strings do fray/Or I’ll light your tunic shirt ablaze/And tell the next beauty on my lap to stay._ ” 

Her friend sang along, but in a hushed and bashful pitch. Twirling around by the bookshelves held her attention more than the lyrics did. When she did, she could never get a full verse out without giggling, and it always provoked Olivia to break her rendition with laughter of her own. Naomi grabbed a book and did another spin, her skirts plumed with air. She swung her arms and tossed the book the few yards between her and Olivia, who promptly caught it with one hand while she was facing her work on the desk.

“And...and...Shit, Naomi, how did the next lines go?” she asked, tossing the book open and licking her thumb to start turning pages. “Is it the dog next? Or the slumbering maiden?”

“Slumbering maiden, right?”

“That’s what I thought, but I swear the dog is in there somewhere.”

Naomi laughed and continued making thumping and bumping noises as she searched for more literature. “Maybe the Maiden has a dog!”

Oh, that would be rich. A song where you not only had an ordeal with a slumbering Maiden in your bed by mistake, but a dog running off with your smalls? That seemed a bit loaded for the rhythm. How could she forget such a bizarre image?

_Five spoons of…Oh, but then you heat the blue stuff…and then…Shit, no, you do that…first? First. Why first?_

“Is there a crack in the wheel, Gem?” Naomi came up behind, setting down a scroll with more care than Olivia did with her materials.

“No, just…the directions are all wordy. I’m fine,” she dismissed, shaking her head and turning more pages. Her other hand waved over the glass, sending heat from her palm to the plate beneath it. Only a touch, so as to not inspire boiling or shattering. “A touch” of anything was not her particular expertise, at least not off the bat.

“Careful,” Naomi said, seeming to see through her thoughts. “Not too much at once.”

“I know.”

“Oh, uh-huh.”

Olivia eyed her, but the pop of a bubble from the glass spooked her. In a hurry she lowered the flare of heat from her hand and lifted the glass by the rim off the plate. Her quick reaction almost spilled some over the edge, but luckily for her she had a second pair of eyes and hands. Close, but no disaster.

“Ugh,” Olivia groaned as she set it back down on the plate. “Dammit.”

Naomi smirked and leaned her hip against the table edge, a hand going to her hip. “Distracted?”

“You know I would be lying if I said no.”

“Yes, but I would appreciate the attempt to persuade me.”

“No one can lie to you, you know that,” she replied, dusting off her hands while the glass simmered ever-so-slightly. It would do so only momentarily, now that she had stopped conducting the warmth. That was all that was necessary for the ingredients to mix well before the next round of tests. She would hone the recipe for Sera’s arrows if it killed her.

Naomi’s staring was a difficult sensation to ignore, though.

“You’re judging me,” Olivia said, distracted with leaning over to dig for a utensil that was tucked in a burlap toolkit. 

“I’m admiring you! Do not be paranoid.” Naomi patted her on the side as she returned to the scroll and spreading it open. “You have a lot on your plate and you are still making time for your old abilities.”

“They are hardly my ‘old’ abilities.”

“Old does not necessarily mean obsolete.”

“Yes,” she pulled out a rod of testing wood to lace the mixture with, “but it can imply unimportant, which is anything but the case.”

“That, Gem, is a matter of opinion. I would think some of your allies would disagree. Perhaps the Seeker?”

The instinctive equivalent of ice going down the back of her shirt struck at the mere utterance. Rather than pause and give away the soreness, she pushed on, planting the rod down and grabbing a corked bottle of some greyish powder. Yes, good, powder. Maybe Sera had forgotten to douse the arrows in it before injecting the poison. She never forgot before, but there was a first for everything, right? Yes, a first. And a second. Maybe thirds. Before long annoying things could become habits. Habits then became patterns. Ignoring, for one. Distancing when it mattered, too. That was common, wasn’t it?

“Olivia!”

She jerked up and back from the table. Everything was some hue of red through her eyes. The only saving grace was the strength in Naomi’s hand as it clasped around her wrist.

“What? What?” She twitched her head, exhaling sharply. “What is it? I was working!”

“You were, and almost a blur while doing it! What is the matter?”

“I…I am…”

From the stairs behind them, a bold tone interceded. “My dear Inquisitor, before your penchant for damaging towers goes wild again, may I remind you that you built this one?”

They both turned to see that the Iron Lady had graced the Tower once more with her presence. The floor below was as quiet as a crypt even though they were sure several Mages had been working down there. The wood floors above their heads began to crack and ache as feet went to the railing, called to do so by the confident voice suddenly present. Olivia would have been one of them had she met her ally in any earlier era of her life besides the one she was in.

“Vivienne,” Olivia greeted, eager to shift the spotlight off of her however small it was, “you have decided to join us in today’s work?”

The Enchanter grinned, cool as the weather and twice as able to make you shiver. Taking her place in front of a wide beam, she scanned from Olivia’s to Naomi’s expression, looking cordially unamused with the ruckus already.

“It was no small feat. I heard ludicrous chanting and foot stomping and thought I had navigated myself into the fortress tavern.”

“Oh! Hah,” Naomi waved her hand with apologetic fervor, “no, no, that was us, do not worry.”

“Yes, I am aware. You’d be surprised how many scales our dear Inquisitor belts out when fielding enemies in combat.”

Naomi glanced to Olivia, who for all intents and purposes could have transcended her body and become a spirit. The Veil could use a spirit of cringing modesty, right?

“Uh, well,” she cleared her throat and rolled up her sleeve some more. “I appreciate it. We are working on arrow poisons and necromance today.”

“Which is why I am here. Your friend here was kind enough to address my quarters personally. I was informed you are short on literature?”

“Wait, wh—”

“Yes!” Naomi interrupted, exuberance now in spades. She let go of Olivia’s hand and went for the desk, picking up a sheet of notes and bringing it to Vivienne for her to look over. The whole moment seemed to have already happened, as if Olivia was only witnessing it as a ghost in hindsight. While she conspired to herself, Vivienne sighed pleasantly whilst skimming.

“Ah, I have most all of these titles in my personal collection.”

“So…does that mean…”

Vivienne paused and lifted a critical brow. “Certainly. I would not have brought my inventory if I did not intend on it being at the Inquisition’s disposal.”

Naomi clasped her hands together. “Ah! Yes! Thank you so much, Madame.” Naomi shook the paper like a victory handkerchief that women in Orlais would have as they watched troops march in parades. Victorious for what given there was hardly any military conflict, Olivia would never know.

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Olivia held her arms out and joined the fray. “Naomi, you wrote to Vivienne asking for rare materials, and Vivienne, you have just had them at the ready this entire time?”

“My dear, do you take your supplements as recommended, or do you toss them in the air to catch them with your mouth like candied nuts?”

Naomi’s mouth went softly agape. “...look, I had to, Gem, what else was I to do? Lord Dorian has taken up all the library stock.”

Vivienne guffawed. “I have heard as much. I could not imagine lending to him, he probably bends the corners of the pages he leaves off. I prefer my collaborations are to be more carefully curated.”

Olivia’s eyebrows had gone up towards the roof in a matter of seconds, and for a moment everything – time, space, reason, emotions – stood still and shrieked. In the grand scheme of things, this was no life-altering ordeal. Naomi had found herself in need of resources to do her work, and she contacted someone who would know a resolution. The odd pang of stress children felt when their individual friends suddenly converged and started sharing secrets in the gardens without them was the last thing she needed.

“Are you sure you did not simply pyromantically sent yourself into heat stroke again?”

Olivia came to, arising from her mental spinning to see both Naomi and Vivienne – two personalities she would not have thought could combine with such splendid civility – staring her down as if she were about to start sprouting elfroot from her ears.

“Uh, hm, I’m just fine. A little…spread thin, as always.”

Naomi shrugged, never one to judge. “That is to be expected, Gem.”

“I know. I’m just…you know, I should be getting back to this mixture. Sera is waiting on me to—”

“Oh, that.” Vivienne walked past the both of them and to the table, hands going to her hips as she evaluated the spread of ingredients and books. “So this is what Sera was spouting epithets about.”

“I guess so,” Olivia came around, followed by Naomi who let her clasped hands fall to her stomach.

“You are not keeping the temperature consistent enough. The ingredients are not converging as they should.”

“I am not…wait, how ca—”

Vivienne held her right hand up, palm facing the wall. A signal to hush if there ever was one. Olivia, who by all accounts answered to very few people due to her job description, pursed her lips shut and looked away, combating her will to ascend onto a higher plane of dread. With the floor still hers, Madame de Fer picked up the beaker and held it up to eye level, gently swiveling the mixture in a circular fashion to appraise the cohesion.

“This is an old formula, and you are making modifications with no guideline. To make matters even harder for yourself, you chose the route of frontloading the base ingredients and utilizing heat, but you are not administering it steadily enough. It is about timing and patience, darling, not force. Elemental work is a matter of cadence, much as those who claim to master it exemplify otherwise.” Taking no proverbial prisoners, she dumped the formula into the basin on the table filled with only a few inches of well water and a rag.

Olivia was ready to toss in the towel, watching her hour and a half of dedication be diluted to little more than colorful paint. Naomi placed a hand on her shoulder, but the kindled light in her eyes showed that her pity only went so far, and not nearly as far as the excitement she had for Vivienne’s presence did.

From the above level, an impatient and deep voice rung out. “What did tell you?! Maker’s breath.”

Olivia rocked her head back and sighed. “I know, Adan. I’m sorry.”

“...Oh, You’re alright.”

“Am I?” she whined slightly before putting her face into her hands, rubbing with exasperation until her forehead and cheeks went pink.

“You have skill, Inquisitor.” Vivienne intervened, setting the glass down and pivoting around to face her. “Skill, but not nearly enough dedicated time. Without practice, it is useless. However, I suspect you have a presently oncoming deadline to have this completed.”

“You would be correct.”

Naomi smiled and side-stepped, making herself the sinew between them. “I suspect what one Mage cannot do in two days, three Mages can do in an afternoon? And tearless, preferably?”

“I give it two hours. I have an appointment at dinner. And I will not have Mage’s sorry tears appropriating my time until then.” Vivienne corrected, her hands clamping on the desk on either side of her hips as she leaned back onto it. “As long as that is understood, then yes.”

What had originally appeared to a downward spiral of embarrassment had become an opportunity. One that made her pride retract and her spirit breathe with relief. It was complicated cross-hairs to be in. However, looking from Vivienne’s confident expression onto Naomi’s one of well-meaning inspiration, the comfort of having peers who had a common cause resurrected itself.

“Well, then, let us get on with it. We cannot break appointments.”

Naomi hopped in the air and smiled like a woman ready to fly. It was hard not to join her in her contagious sentiment. It had been too long since her and Vivienne had coalesced for a project, anyway. With any luck, it would be both a distraction from other matters and a productive endeavor for the cause.

While Vivienne took command of the notes and diagram Olivia had outlined, the other two pulled up chairs and settled into conjecture. Shortly after they did, though, another set of feet came up the stairs. Interrupting the three and their beginning debate, the courier looked rather out of place with their light armor.

“Inquisitor,” the man said, standing at attention at the top of the steps, chest puffed and scroll in fist.

Olivia, who had her back to him originally, turned and let her easy smile linger for a little longer. “Yes?”

“Word for you.”

Those three words. Good words, words she had longed to hear for days. Well, she had heard them, sure, but not in the way she wanted. Not for the reason she desired. The day was truly looking up after all as she handed her book to Naomi and met him where he stood. With renewed exuberance she took the small handheld scroll and rolled it to locate the seal. The seal would indicate everything before the words inside ever did. All she needed to see was dark red wax and a half-assed seal imprint of a Seeker emblem. Or maybe if she had lost that one, a Chantry sun. Less savory, but it would do. Alas, shifting around to in the direction of her allies, her face dropped.

Black wax. An Inquisition symbol. Clear and deeply pressed. Hers.

“Wait,” she furrowed her brow, looking back at the man. “This is a note I sent. It is not for me, it is for the Seeker. You have it backwards..”

He bowed his head immediately at the slight sense of her displeasure. “I was told to return it, my Lady. On account of arbitration. That is all I know.”

In her hands was more than just an inter-alliance missive. It was a confession, written as proof. A plea that went against every self-preserving bone in her body. So carelessly executed, only to be rescinded without appreciation. No witness, no vindication. The way her quill itched her fingers when she wrote ‘please.’ The way she had paced her desk wondering whether or not to take the risk and send it. All for naught. Blood was turning molten. She looked off, the sound of paper cracking and crunching as her hands fell.

“…O…Olivia…”

“My Lady?”

Her teeth ground. “You may leave.”

“…Yes, Inquisitor. Thank you.” He turned tail and rushed down to the ground floor like he stood to have his pants set on fire. Maybe he did. Maybe she would have looked at the nearest flammable object and thought, oh, that’ll do. Or perhaps this confluence of emotions was beyond simple tantrums.

“Olivia.” Naomi’s voice called to her again, this time closer. She still couldn’t rip her eyes from the corner window where the colors blurred, and the bricks had lost their detail.

“Inquisitor?” Vivienne’s cut in like a staff blade through flesh, and were combined with a grab on her arm. She shut her eyes and fixated on the feel. Raising her eyes she found Vivienne’s, and they instantly shocked her into presence once and for all.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, pulling away and stomping towards her desk, an iron grip still on the scroll. Damned if it didn’t reduce to smithereens in her embrace. “I just…I remembered some preparations I must make for Council tonight.”

Naomi kept back, as did the Enchanter, though both looked pressed in their own ways for why the sudden shift in demeanor transpired.

“Olivia, are you sure?”

Breathing was shallow as she moved to the side and peered back at them. She was all the more alone when she saw their confused faces at a distance. Ostracized in the name of a wordless humiliation, she lifted the scroll to her waist and loosened her fingers.

“Vivienne, you were saying I needed to reform the manner of heat which I administer, yes?”

Vivienne watched with controlled concern. "That I was.”

In her hand, the scroll sparked and cracked. One ambitious limb of orange flame grew from it as the black and smoking embrace of her powers consumed the paper. It was quick and merciless, subdued but unsettling. She swallowed as hot wax collected into the middle of her palm. It glistened as it was trapped, engulfed in its shallow reservoir. A hazy reflection of her eye survived in it.

"You are right, as always. It seems I have forgotten who I am. If it is new heat I need, it is new heat I shall have." She then clasped her hand shut, and let the wax seep from between her fingers. Back to work it was.


	67. Ruin My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last straw has been realized for a tired and pining Inquisitor. Yet, the unexpected blocks she faces on account of her heart and a friend's soft intervention raise the stakes, as her and Cassandra finally come face to face again. Will it be another fire to run from, or will the chase end once and for all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended background music as you read this chapter -- yes, that's right, I said it: (in order)  
> "Rock Bottom" by Hailee Steinfeld  
> "Ruin My Life" by Zara Larsson  
> "All I Want Is You" by U2
> 
> ...enjoy ;)

8th Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon

Journal, 

_I am so angry I suspect smoke or steam to come from my ears._

_I regret ever saying a word to her about anything. I should have never gone to her that night. I should have sent her on her way to Caer Oswin without me. I should have tackled her to the ground the day I met her and ran off._

_I want every single mile of land in Thedas between her and I. I want us to never get more than a thousand miles in proximity to one another. I want to be free of her and her opinions forever, and never care again what goes on in that hardhead of hers._

_Clearly, she wishes that, too. If that is the case, than she shall have it. For her sake, I hope she reads this next missive I will have sent._

_Ugh, dammit. Damn it all. I want to snap this quill in half._

_A note has arrived. I must put this away._

_O.B.S._  


A note, sent from the Mage quarters to the desk of the Inquisitor: 

  
_Inquisitor,_

_Olivia. This is Naomi. Well, and Roslyn. She insisted I include her in this since she is staring over my shoulder._

_It has occurred to me after what happened at the tower yesterday afternoon that Seeker Pentaghast may be a sore subject for you. Even if you do not wish to discuss it, which I understand, I think there is something you should know. Something that happened earlier this week that I thought would be best to keep…  
_  


The rest of the note has been burned.

\--

It was a wonderful night to brood in front of the fire, legs up on the coffee table and a mug of tea in-hand with magically-sustained warmth. Multitasking was a worthy cause: Relaxation, and waiting well-armed. Soon there would be a storm she had set in motion. In fact, it was almost any moment. No matter. She was nothing if not graciously flexible. The room was tidy, save for the stacks of books sprawled on every flat surface. The incense had been burned about a half hour prior, allowing for it to settle and the room to breathe. The balcony doors were slit open, tapestries drawn. Candles were fresh. It was all about the ambiance. Well, until it wasn’t.

At last, clouds came calling. The door swung open in a forceful push that reverberated through the room. Not many had the strength to do that; it was a blasted hunk of wood and metal. But for an outraged Seeker fresh from a day full of training, it was a mere delicate obstacle.

Olivia steeled herself and took a sip of her tea. Is that what it felt like to know your bloody end was near? What did it say, then, that she was nothing but smug?

“You are sending me to the Hinterlands?!” the Nevarran came around to stand on the right-hand side of the fireplace mantle so she could face her adversary fully. She would not stand for anything less.

Olivia watched the fire as she held the cup on her palm, unphased.

“Inquisitor!”

Not one word. Paper crinkled violently. She must have brought the orders with her. Her pounding heartbeat echoed between her ears.

“Is this your revenge, then? Banishment and silence?”

Olivia took another shallow sip, swallowing smooth, before she sat upright. Oh, how cute the hypocrisy was. Placing her drink on the corner of the table and tucking her legs at the ankle like a lady, she stretched her shoulders.

“Good evening, Seeker. How nice of you to have come visit me during this temperate evening. Would you like some wine?”

Cassandra became the embodiment of perplexed. Her eyes were wide, and then narrow, her brow coming down on them as their eyes connected at last.

“Have you gone mad?”

“Please, do have a seat.”

“I will do nothing of the sort.”

“Very well, have it your way. I will serve myself some wine, if that wouldn’t offend you.”

Despite her feigned consideration, she wasted no time standing and going to the tall serving table behind the couch. With poise she poured into her own chalice a hefty serving. There was nothing else to do but take a generous gulp of it, one which she swallowed just as casually as she did her tea. Unbidden, Cassandra continued her scalding investigation.

“What on Earth could possibly need my attention in the Hinterlands?!”

“Refugees are still traversing the region, and need help and protection. I saw no one else better fit for to ensure continued stability. It will be a two week excursion, perhaps three at most.”

“Three weeks?!”

“Yes. It is all there, in that paper you are trying to reduce to ash. If you want, I can oblige on your behalf.”

Cassandra scowled. None the worse for wear, Olivia swiveled the chalice in her hand and proceeded around the couch until she was parallel with her. Only the table between them as an obstacle that could have been readily destroyed by either of them and their respectable capabilities.

“This is not what we discussed. This is not what was--”

“Aha!” Olivia chuckled dryly, cracking her facade. “You are correct about that. It is not what we discussed, because you refused to discuss anything with me since we traveled back here from Caer Oswin. Or have you somehow deluded yourself into thinking we have been sitting around with tea and crackers this entire time?!”

The note crushed in her gloved stranglehold. “And what happened to your promise to give me time? Does your word no longer carry weight except when you decide it?”

“There are expectations that I cannot override on account of a promise between friends, Cassandra. Neither can your refusal to acknowledge me when you are not in need of my resources or my authority.”

“Is that what I am to you, then? Someone who takes advantage of your generosity? Have I not done all that you have asked of me?!”

“What is your loyalty to me if it does not come with your respect?”

“I could ask the same of yours!”

Without a tree or something huge to set ablaze, Olivia resorted to the completely reasonable idea of tossing her chalice into the fireplace. They both looked away to respective areas of the floor. Splattered wine stained the table and rug, everywhere besides where Cassandra stood. Had it, Olivia could have only bitterly laughed for it matching the monotonous shades of purple she wore. She turned her back to her, and clasped her hands onto her hips, pressing through the thin layers of silken fabric to her night dress. But, as always when Olivia threw a fit, Cassandra could not be found flinching.

“You are punishing me for doing as you agreed. As we agreed. How is that the mark the fairness which you cling to?”

“I never said I was the epitome of fairness.”

“Your pretense of it is more than enough.”

Olivia sucked on her teeth and side-stepped. “You have absolutely no right to loathe me on account of pretense. You, who fall on sword after sword, day after day, for organizations that betray all of your convictions!”

“That is not your judgement to m--”

“It is, Cassandra! That is the thing! It is!” She stood squarely then, pointing her finger. “You invited my ascension into that right. You have walked this path either in front of me, or behind, but always being the force that moves me. You do not get to demand my accountability only to cut down my experience.”

The first awful silence befell them. Air filled her stinging lungs as she stepped back, folding her black-sleeved arms. Cassandra narrowed her stance, shifting from warrior to disgruntled official. But in her eyes and expression were still the readied hostilities of a fighter.

“You may have been asked to judge the world and its Orders, Inquisitor, but as a person, you could never possibly own the right to judge me for how I have belonged in them. Even if that judgment is to my benefit, you cannot absolve me of the consequences.”

“I have never tried t--”

“Yes, you have. You admitted to it that night at camp. Among your...many admonitions. You have made it clear on multiple occasions that you believe the Seekers and the Chantry below me and my character. Yet, the reason why I am here is because I have stood shoulder-to-shoulder with them. It is because of my involvement that I must fight, that I must…” Cassandra looked toward the fire, slowly turning to face it with hands still at her sides. “...I cannot singularly be greater than the whole. I must contend with the entire image, and not just the pieces where I find my own reflection.”

Unbelievable. So many new possibilities to be dreamt, and Cassandra was counting herself out. A piece of the greater, fucked up puzzle that never worked or presented a transparent image. She let an arm fall and gripped it by the elbow, self-consciousness seething.

“I know that angers you.” Cassandra looked back at her. “and perhaps that is...why I have avoided you again when I promised I would not.”

“If you are so proud of it...if you are so solemn in your belief, why are you acting so ashamed?”

“I am not ashamed.”

“Cassandra, you are one of the most unabashed people I have ever known. But for this...for all of this, you have done nothing but shy from me at every opportunity. You look as me, as you do now, and I can see fear in your eyes. If this has nothing to do with me, and everything…to...”

As she spoke, Cassandra was stepping closer to her, causing her train of thought to strain. Wearily, but still. It got to the point where speaking of fear felt useless, because it was filling her heart to see the woman she hated and...and…well, damn.

“Are you...are you keeping something from me?” she added once she caught her breath.

Cassandra halted a few steps from her, her hand relaxing as it held the orders. She pursed her lips and handed the paper to her.

“Nothing that I am sure you could not infer.”

“That is a cheat. Even you know it.”

“Is it? And what would sending me on assignment to the Hinterlands be, exactly?”

“You think me so heartlessly fickle that I would send you away just to get you out of my hair while I run about the Emerald Graves?”

Olivia snatched the orders and flattened them out between her hands. Her handwriting, linear but messy. Messy out of fury more than anything else. They looked so useless, so idle. Written from a place of pain which she was still dwelling, but didn’t have the heart to weaponize it like she planned.

“If that is not the case, then tell me the truth.”

“I…” she paused and bit down on her cheek. She made for her desk, breaking away from the pointed atmosphere Cassandra was so good at creating. Her back to her, her hands reaching and pressing the tips of her fingers into the desk, she tossed the paper across it.

“All I have ever wanted since the moment I shook your hand at Haven was to stick it to you. To prove you wrong in every way I could, about everything. But in the process I fear I have only made myself more infatuated rather than indignant.”

Footsteps, slow and courteous, across the floor to the soles of her bare feet. Once again Cassandra was daring to break the bubble she had reinforced around her, around everything she could protect from loss. She boldly turned in place to face her and leaned against the desk, pressing her hands down. The stability that gave her was useful in the wake of her encroachment.

“Why can’t you just admit it to yourself?” Cassandra asked, criticism returning with ardor.

“Admit what? I just said I--”

“Ugh,” she rubbed the side of her head, eyes rolling slightly. “admit it once and for all that you are not the effortlessly detached person you think yourself to be. You were...you are, many things, but you are not unaffected. I have seen it!”

Olivia bit her lip and avoided her, glancing towards the cracked balcony doors. It was a still night. The winds hadn’t rocked or beat against them once. The world dared not move.

“You would rather hold your tongue, but that is an answer in itself.”

“I can hold my tongue when I damn well please!”

She slammed the table and pulled away, to the windows as if she could hope to fly out of them. But she lost will to go any farther than a few feet. She was so good at running, at evading. It was a second-nature instinct, swift as smell and sensitive as hearing.

“You dare judge me insincere in my boundaries? Do you look at me and see only the woman you share apples with, or who clumsily trips when out in the field? I will have to answer one day for everything I have done with the life I have been given, Cassandra. Not just the mercies.”

A beat went by of nothing: no hard refutation, no rejection. Just reckoning. Olivia loosened up her stand in order to take advantage of it. “The point...of this is not to deconstruct me. It is to address your circumstances.”

“There is no need,” Cassandra replied curtly. “I have already said all that I wish to, and you will not condescend any further, obviously.”

“You deserve an explanation.”

“And I have had it. You are censuring me. There is nothing more to say.”

“I am not censuring you, I--”

“Spare me.”

Cassandra made for the stairs. The bestilled, almost frantic loneliness it evoked threw itself into Olivia’s face. It was karmic justice for every time she had done the same to her, only she wasn’t as respectful of endings as she had been.

“Cassandra!”

Surprisingly, at the invocation of her name the Seeker stopped just a few feet short of the rail. Her hands collected into fists. Olivia had her condemning audience for a moment more, and perhaps only one moment. It had to be good, it had to be worthwhile. It had to be.

“I...want you to go to the Hinterlands because I...ugh, dammit,” she struggled. It was so much more miserable to admit aloud rather than stew on it alone. “I…”

“Because you what?”

“I thought there, you...you could remember why…”

“Inquisitor, I have no patience for your improvising sympa--”

“Dammit, woman, would you just let me get this out!”

Cassandra spun partially, her stiff shoulder facing her. Her discerning expression added heat to the last ditch effort. Olivia blew air into her mouth, puffing out her cheeks whilst she gazed out her peripheral vision.

“I confess that I did desire a way for me to put distance between myself and you. If I could, I would have found a way to put the ocean between us. I had the order ready to sign saying simply that you would not be traveling to the Graves, but remaining here. But...then my friend came to me. She...she said you turned in your personal library of books to the fortress reserves. All your novels, your….your poetry books. The book I gave you. My anger became...I do not even know what it became! I scoured every memory I had where you talked of what mattered to you. I thought...I thought that if you could go somewhere, somewhere you could do what you believe needs to be done and help people...I….agh.”

The Seeker held onto her reluctance, even as she respected the break. Her skepticism died hard.

“You wish me to go out of care for my faith?”

“Yes.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“I...have no fucking idea.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, falling back towards the stairs.

Frantic again. “Ugh, because I--”

She stopped. “Because you what?!”

“Because I care for you too much to look you in the face and lie, and you know it!”

In her soul was every shaking domino piece waiting to fall. Years of watching Veronica’s denials. Years of being coveted rather than loved by a Mother scarcely deserving the title. Every man who ever felt entitled to a piece of her. The inadequate ingredients to what had grown in her spirit. It changed everything.

Cassandra’s face dropped, brows rounding and lips parting. It was irrevocable now, and Olivia’s adrenaline ran wild under her skin.

“If this is going to be like that night at camp, save it. I cannot bare another.”

She clutched her hands to her waist as her voice began to shake, their eyes locking. Butterflies in her stomach would have been an understatement. In her expression, in her sudden plea of clemency, Olivia could only feel guilt. The cordoned off intimacies of her life crashed into one another as she recalled that day, feuding with Veronica to settle the score. Her words, full of righteous and unsettled pain.

Between her ears, her hypocritical scolding of Veronica's misdeeds rung: _You strung her along, you knew she loved you and you turned away at every chance you had to honor it…_

Maybe enough could be enough.

“Every bone in this body of mine wants nothing more than to tell you off, but the decrepit muscle in my chest says no. I’m falling for you. I have been falling for you. So, there it is, the shortcoming of my legendary temper. I won’t run. I can’t run. And I certainly can’t lie.”

Cassandra’s mouth moved, but no words came forth. Her eyes had a new glisten to them in the firelight. “...but...but I thought you…”

“What, that I refute romance? Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I...I would develop a knack for floral arrangements. Who knows? Everything I once believed truth has been turned upside down. Nothing makes sense anymore, unless I am around you. Then it does. Infuriating sense, but sense all the same.” 

“You...You mock me,” Cassandra accused, keeping her distance. It was a good attempt, and one not entirely unfounded. After all, what had their friendship survived but otherworldly levels of avarice and savvy humor? All of it a denial for what was truly starting to flourish.

“You know, Cassandra, I wish I was,” Olivia nodded in a circular motion. “There are parts of me that miss when I used to mock you without feeling the need to comfort you afterward. But alas,” she held her arms out, “I am nothing but an impossibly stubborn woman who, evidently, cannot get enough of the other impossibly stubborn woman here. I care for you, and have cared for you, as I will continue to as the world threatens to fall apart around my feet.”

Cassandra appeared to be hardly breathing, like she had fast become a statue.

“I…I have...” she attempted to respond. Instead of finish, though, in a decisive whirlwind she made for the exit. Climbing down the stairs like a woman called to arms, she didn’t even look back. Not once. Olivia stayed behind as the door opened and shut with a clashing sound. Just like that she was gone, and she was left hung out to dry. So, this was why love stories were so melodramatic.

There could be no appropriate meltdown. It was deeper than that. A nightmare’s nightmare, if that made any sense. The Fade should have had fear demons of doors slamming rather than disgusting insects.

She took in the lifeless room that had become a battleground. Nothing was sacred; no inch was safe or untouched. It had all been stained. She would be humiliated, in a constant deluge of _these were the tapestries that hung in the room when she rejected me. And those rugs, where she stood and then ran._ It was ridiculous, and yet, she could not rise above it. Across the room by her dresser was her vanity, table, and cushioned stool. She could go to her mirror, sit, and tend to herself. Then she could throw her brush into the glass and shatter it. She could do it. It would distract her.

One step towards it. Then another. A night of destruction, just what she was good at. Letting her arms fall, she became a one-woman processional. Everything was devolving into a serial, episodic drama.

The door opened again, that blasted sound grading on her nerves. Just as quickly as she stormed out, Cassandra had returned. Olivia was at the center of her room by the time she came up the steps. The hopeless wish she had under her breath realized. She froze as they stood aligned with one another on either side of the floor.

“W-what are you doing?”

Cassandra swallowed stiff. Her voice was brittle and deep. “Did you mean what you said?”

“...What?”

“Did you mean it?”

Olivia lifted a brow. “...No, I’m just stifling tears of laughter and the silliness of comedic relief.”

“Ugh!” Cassandra flung her arms in the air. “You are impossible.”

“Well! what kind of question is that?! ‘Am I serious.’ What, you think I do this as a side hustle?”

“You expect me to not expect a retraction, after all you have done to isolate yourself?” Cassandra started to pace. “Time and time again you have confessed only to cover your tracks before I have had a chance to say what I feel.”

“And what is that, exactly?!”

“It is as I said that night,” she stopped to look dead ahead at her. “I...I cannot deny what I feel. That I have noticed what exists between us, what has existed, despite how frustrating it is at times to be around you.”

Olivia scoffed. “Oh, well, that is astonishing in its flatter--”

“Frustrating not merely because of our arguments, or disagreements. Insufferable because...” she shook her head and stepped back. “Because you...you being who you are. This cause, our responsibilities...how could you ever possibly…”

“Are you sure that isn’t your euphemism for ‘woman’?”

Cassandra shot a pointed look. “That is not what I was--”

Olivia crossed her arms, unconvinced. “Oh, come on. You are not the only one who finds masochistic solace in Leliana’s confidence. When I knew little else about you beside your sneering at my direction I noticed what everyone else said of you. You, the woman who would uphold Andrastian tradition with her bare fist if needed. The woman who hasn’t faltered, who couldn’t bare to fall out of line even if the line was the moving shadow of the setting sun.”

Hearing her reputation in such a way, she frowned. “Yes, the heretic who abandoned her Order and her faith’s pillars to forge a fringe cause. Quite exemplary.”

“You know that is not the truth.”

“Neither is the reputation you have so carefully described.”

The argument was growing exhausted. She had thrown nearly everything she had in her arsenal of opinions, and staring at Cassandra’s half of the improvised battle ground, there seemed to be little ammo to withstand from the other side. Why did they always do this? Going to blows so mercilessly only to have smoke pass while they realized they were fighting on the same side, taking shots out of their own forces? What did Olivia ever gain from hurting her?

“The point still stands. I thought you considered such choices in behavior beyond you.”

A sound of exasperated air through one’s nose. Cassandra shook her head. “You think if I had a choice in the matter, this is how it would have turned out? That it would be you?”

“Pff, hah!” Olivia huffed, acidic as she held her hands up. “How foolish of me to think an attraction to women would make you any less of a grumpy ass than you are! Silly me, I must have drank too much afternoon wine!”

Cassandra glared over her shoulder. “Even you must admit this is far from ideal. Your regard for me has been nothing short of caustic.”

“Never,” Olivia mocked, “I live without logic and reason. I simply wander aimlessly until an emotion sticks to my boot heels.” She turned towards her bed and rubbed her face quietly. It couldn’t have been more than a couple hours after supper in the hall, but the sweet release of death felt too insufficient a rest after their business.

“Maybe it is for the better,” she sighed, rubbing up her sleeve.

“And what, exactly, is that?” Cassandra retorted.

“...I don’t know. I’m not the kind of woman you go for on the first try.”

Shoes scuffed on the rug, slow but with attitude. “The fact that you think so highly of yourself is far from surprising.”

Olivia shrugged, cupping her hand on her opposite shoulder as she turned around to face her again. She was still mad, but not in the terrifying way. The kind of way she looked when Olivia had tripped one too many times in the field for her to believe it was sincere clumsiness.

“I’m a woman spoiled beyond her merit. A former Circle Mage who has too much blood on her hands. In case that wasn’t enough, I have a glowing green hand. If anything, I’m the woman who kisses you last before you meet your deity on the other side.”

Cassandra’s gaze focused. “You think you are so singular in your struggle. Like you are the only one who has had lesser men climb above you to look down upon your worth. As if you are the only one who lies awake at night in this fortress remembering lives have been lost because of you. Lives both worthy and unworthy. That is not why you are as extraordinary as you are, Olivia. Far from it.”

“...Olivia?”

She began to come closer. “Olivia.”

“Then...am I just ordinary to you?”

“No.”

Olivia grinned with confusion. “Then...what am I? What makes me rise to the occasion if all that is null and void?”

The side of Cassandra’s mouth ticked up. She drew nearer and nearer. “When you laugh, you laugh with your entire upper body as if you were convulsing. When you eat, you rival any sailor or soldier I have ever had the unsavory privilege of eating beside. In fact, I cannot think of single process you do that does not end in some form of mess…”

“Ugh, I--”

“I am not finished.”

Olivia closed her eyes and exhaled, leaning onto one hip. She was bouncing her heel off the ground as Cassandra collected her speech, still walking at a snail’s indulgent pace. Bastard.

“Catching you in a mood is like walking into a hornet’s nest blindfolded, and your insults are as clever as a child’s.”

Some of those insults were swirling in her head concurrently as she re-opened her eyes. “...And?”

She came to no more than a foot away and halted, even on both her feet as her hands went behind her back. Her height she had on her was all the more antagonistic. But then, she let her grin fully show.

“And...you are insufferable when you do not have the upper hand.”

“Are you trying to make a drinking game out of this? What, sip for every time you get a jab at the Herald of Andraste?”

“No, I am not.”

“W-well then what is your blasted point, then?!”

She did not respond at once, probably to make room for Olivia’s outburst in patience. When she halted she was more than two hungry steps away from her. “My point, Olivia, is that you are impossible, and I have no immunity to it. You are nothing like I imagined, for more reasons than your being a woman. And it...scares me. It scares me more than you know.”

It took Olivia’s breath away. Cassandra never admitted to being scared. She never admitted to the sheer thought of being scared. Guilty, yes. Concerned, yes. But never afraid. Neither did she, though, and was it the truth?

“...I am scared, too, Cassandra,” her voice brittle but without the promise of tears.

“I know.”

“Then….we obviously have a choice to make.”

Invisible bricks piled onto her chest. In all the years she ever knew her own desires to be nothing but sordid misguidance, she had never been persuaded so swiftly into believing them genuine. It was unlike anything she had ever known. Her pulse pounded from within her skull. Would she leave her again, and this time not return? Would that be it?

“You are Inquisitor. The world and its fate hang on your...on our actions. There is no choice.”

Her nerves cringed along with her pride. “Are you seriously going to use my role against my autonomy in this?”

“Inquisitor.”

“Oh? What happened to ‘Olivia’?”

“.I--”

“If that is your answer then you have no right to deem me the epitome of impossible and elusive, for that would reward you the premium on both.”

Cassandra matched her intensity of expression. Its unspoken assertions were enough kindling. Olivia took it and ran with it.

“Cut the shit, Cassandra. We have carried ourselves like fools for the world to see whenever one of us has the wild thought to endanger ourselves. But what your silence has shown me these weeks is that I easily forget many things about how far I have come. I have found the strength to transform myself from a flippant runaway into an Inquisition Commander. I have bled, and I have nearly died, and I have lost much. I have altered the futurity of my life past the point of no return. So...so don’t you dare condescend to me about what the world expects as an excuse to cling to your fear. If the last year has provided any proof, it is that I can do this and...and...I can...”

Wherever the outpouring came from was uncertain. What was, though, was the feeling of long-awaited vindication. So maybe the opportunity to stick it to her had come forth after all, just with different consequences that she originally dreamed. That was life, for you.

Cassandra stepped back, pairing action with her reckoning. The rate at which Olivia went from softened wax into cold iron was difficult even for her to absorb.

“Are you...honestly considering courting me?” Cassandra rejoined. “You, of all people?”

“And what if I did?”

“You..” Her brows creased together, and she backed off some more, “would want that?”

He let her arms fall, choking back a dumbfounded laugh. “I want you, Cassandra. You know that. If that means I have to prick my thumbs on every colorful flower this side of the borderlands, then...shit, I may as well put that harvest knife to good use.”

Cassandra turned and walked towards the center of the room. Distress and fear had clearly embedded themselves in the room with them.

“I am a warrior. I am impulsive, and righteous. I am a Seeker, and an Andrastian,” she pivoted around.

It was a worthy consideration. After all, among all the possibilities for lovers and affections, being enamored with someone like her was never the plan. To be fair there wasn’t much of a plan to begin with, but had there been, it certainly wouldn’t have presented her image. The first time Olivia ever met Cassandra it was tied up in a decrepit prison floor, and she was threatening to kill her. If someone went back in time to that moment to inform her that this was where it would all lead, she would have laughed like no one else in the world had yet to laugh. Fully believing, of course, that she had descended into lunacy.

Maybe it was indeed lunacy, then, that compelled her to follow -- to walk towards her and heed no more the barriers and walls she had crafted with her own two hands between her and what she wanted. Maybe it was enough to say madness had consumed her demons long enough for her to have a clear back from where she stood, to her. Who could judge her for taking advantage, when it was Cassandra of all women whom she stood to lose?

And she was standing there, watching her every move but not backing down. Not running away. She was so tired of running away. So tired of the space between them, pulling them just out of reach from one another but never far enough to stop hoping.

“I am a Mage, and I giggle to much. Nice to make your acquaintance.”

Cassandra looked further confounded, her mouth softly agape. Eyes bright as they took in uncharted territory. One could only hope all this mess was measuring up to all of her romantic ideals, to all her requirements of what a harrowing love story could be. Because if all Olivia could measure up to was mediocrity after all she had been through to be open about it all, she would lose her mind. Committing fully, she closed the space between them and reached her right hand to take hold of hers. A courageous, if shallow, breath filled her chest.

“If all you could do is ruin my life, Cassandra, then ruin my life. Show me your worst, and show me no mercy. But I beg you, don’t go. Do not walk out that door and make me pretend again that I can live without you.”

She said the words that unlocked the floodgates. A reservoir a little less than a year in the making. It consumed her the moment Cassandra put her hands on her, cusping either side of her neck. Unsatiated, but kind. Gentle. And then, there were her lips. Those lips that were as much myth as they were a ghost to her. The first kiss a light and testing touch, even as she closed her eyes with the readiness to give in completely. A kiss you got at the front entryway of your door as your lover was saying goodbye, and the chaperone stood nearby. The innocence of it made her smile, and when Cassandra pulled her mouth away, she slit her eyes open and looked into hers. Their noses beside each other.

“...are you….” Olivia muttered, taking hold of the side of her forearm. “is this alright?”

Air escaped from Cassandra’s parted lips as she stared at her, her expression at a loss. Was it a mistake? Was the shock that took hold of her face the realization that this was not what she wanted? Her heart nearly stopped as she hung on her stillness for answers.

A woman of action. Cassandra’s hands raced down to Olivia’s sides and pulled her into her inch-for-inch as she kissed her again. This time it was with reckless abandon. Passionate, on fire without hope of salvation. Olivia was stunned at first, but she was a goner. She threw her arms around her shoulders as she was lifted off the floor. She bent her heels up into the air, draped in her dress that proved slippery underneath Cassandra’s grip.

She kissed well, as she fought well: with intention. And she tasted like tea and balm. Mint balm. So that was where the smell came from. It was incredible. She would happily lose her night to it, never to be recovered. A cold chill surrounded them, a calling card of the night commencing itself. Unbothered by any sense that had not been enveloped by her, Olivia let her fingers travel into her black hair with no intention of of them re-emerging from their intertwined sojourn. Breathing grew heavier as she grew hungrier.

It would have always been her. Before she ever knew the feeling of kissing her, and certainly after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In many ways, this scene is a nod to Cassandra's in-game romance. The leaving and coming back, the argument over duty -- the parts I thought needed to be honored for how much they breathed life into her character. But, the rest is far and away built upon the unique and chaotic story her and Olivia have endured. So, I hope this milestone has been as vindicating and gratifying to read as it was to write after 67 Chapters!


	68. Broken For Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the Inquisitor and Seeker's embrace after ages of suppressed feelings. Cassandra is at last obliged to come clean about her avoidance of Olivia's presence and opinion on the Seeker's destruction. Neglected anxieties come to a head, and the loyalty cultivated between them is tested. So much for casual pillow talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Nudity, minor sexual activity, foreplay.

_“In the Free Marches, it is said that there are three types of Orlesian women -- the temptress, the priestess, and the riottess. Only a fool believes they know the difference by how good they are at prayer, and the wise one knows all three exist behind the same mask, ready to take your confession.”_

\--

In fables and stories, the first romantic encounter was typically cut from the same cloth. A kiss before goodbye, a handhold, a slight and fading touch. When you got older -- and by older, try walking -- it was near violent, desperate, and caught in the middle of chaos. It bored her, even as young as she was, that there was nothing in between the two extremes. Proper, courtly love fell into the same several monotonous patterns, and heroic love desired to traumatize more than inspire. She wanted something that was both promising and passionate, sincere in its devotion. Unfortunately, Orlais was no place to grow up if you wanted temperance. She was lucky enough to find storybooks where there was a kind conversation or two in between coups.

The first night they shared, Olivia’s sovereign anxiety concerned whether or not she would be reduced to a caricature. A shadow-dweller to one of the womanly icons she had been raised to compare herself to and exalt. Orlesian women strove to be empowered. Sometimes, that was precisely the problem. like when your Aunt was poisoning three of your second cousins at a family soiree and another Cousin had that Aunt’s best friend’s husband under her gown skirts, as her mother would say, _checking for stocking holes._

Olivia didn’t want to be a novel heroine. She didn’t want to be the plotting victor. She just wanted...well, something else. Something undefined. If she endured her feuding feelings for Cassandra just to give in and find that she only wanted someone to fill a character’s role, then she would have to inform the broody warrior woman that she had picked the wrong Imperial brat.

Cassandra didn’t work like that. The tables turned, and Olivia became scared then of what she hadn’t predicted: how unassuming the Nevarran was despite her closely-held idealism. When Olivia found herself overwhelmed and asking to stop, skin glistening and clothes long abandoned on the floor beside the bed, it only confounded her more that she was not upset. “No” was a complicated historicism, but in Cassandra’s acceptance of it, there were new pages to be written.

When the preamble to morning came, and the skies through the windows turned a dusty blue, she awoke as she typically did. Routine dictated getting up, washing if needed, putting on clothes and pinning up hair. At that point, the first messages from Josephine would arrive, and the initial round of work could begin. If she had training, then she would send off reports and slip on the appropriate shoe wear. If it was a morning ride, she’d grab the exact pair of gloves. This time, though, she came to and felt the luxurious fatigue. Her tongue, still drunk on the words she muttered across her pillow to her. Her eyes impressed with the sight of her undone and sprawled under sheets, and how they clung to her shape.

She had no fealty in her for routine. Though, it didn’t stop her from rising up to bask. She had let her bed canopy drapes loose, and their black fabric filtered the increasing light. She never did that. Canopy drapes were nice, but they boxed her in. They took away her ability to sit up and see everything for what it was. Never had she desired to be sequestered in her sleep just so.

When she brushed her knotted hair from her face and found Cassandra, asleep on her back with a face gently morose by default, it became clear what had changed.

She rolled until she was sitting closely, facing the headboard. She hugged her knees to her chest, the linens she carried with her body draped unevenly around her shoulders and hips. Cassandra was not as modestly adorned. She still didn’t snore, even with being in the comfort of a bedchamber instead of abroad in a tent. She hardly even breathed through her mouth.

Goodness, she was beautiful. So beautiful that it damn-near seduced her into waxing poetic in her thoughts. Dangerous territory for a sworn cynic.

A bit of time passed, and she let her fingers trace against Cassandra’s torso. The sheer amount of scars she had amassed was unsurprising, but nevertheless dismaying. Some coarse, others slightly concave. Some only visible in the pattern or color change of skin. Her olive skin hid abrasions and emphasized others. In the wake of an indulgent press against one of them her stomach sunk in. Olivia pulled her fingers up, but not away.

She groaned softly as she woke, her chin tucked against her shoulder. “Have you grown bored with snoring?”

Olivia scrunched her nose and poked her in the rib before retracting her hand. Not overly-hard, to be sure.

Cassandra kept her eyes shut. “Is it morning?”

“One could say that.”

“Mm. It is hard to know, with these funerary drapes you call a canopy.”

“Maybe that is the point.”

A laugh under her breath, and Cassandra at last opened her eyes to face the day. Only just enough to look at her. In the wake of her rekindled attention, Olivia hid half her face behind her propped up arms, pressing her mouth into the crook of her elbow.

Cassandra blinked slowly some more. “Is something wrong?”

She only shook her head. How could there be? Well, besides the obvious. That kind of question had become a joke between her and the Advisers: one you’d ask when you spotted one of them brooding quietly to themselves about some matter or another. In those cases she has the implicit right to complain. Here, is was more like a prayer, and she had scarcely been the praying type.

The canopy fabric shifted slow, blocking the bulk of an incoming morning breeze. Blocking the world, if she could have it so.

“You are stuck in your head. I can tell just from looking at you.”

“Oh? Do I have a face?”

“It is the same face you have at camp in the morning.”

Olivia giggled in her throat, raising her chin up in the air with a playfully snobby expression. “Is it at least a pretty face?”

Cassandra grinned and uncovered her arm from the blanket, wrapping it up and under one of Olivia’s calves. “It is an honest one.”

The introduction of her touch in places she had never allowed herself to imagine was inexplicable. People liked to think women who had loved for money were all skittish to the touch of their lovers. Some were, and justifiably so. It was a fraught occupation to assume, and pretending otherwise was a grave dishonesty. But she resented the fragility that was placed on her and her body regardless of her consent. It gave her so little room to be afraid, to have insecurities, knowing that people would diagnose it before she ever had a chance to explain. She had a right to fearfulness, just as she did courage. They informed each other.

“Still think you are un-mistaken in loving a woman?” she asked, wrapping her arms around her thighs.

“Is that why you pulled away last night?”

Her light expression wavered. “I asked the first question.”

Cassandra pushed herself up off her pillow.

“Was I...was I…” Olivia hesitated some more, neglecting her gaze.

“...Were you what?”

“...Agh, nevermind. I hate myself for wondering.” She buried her face in her hands and rubbed. The sheets grew tighter around her as she hugged them close between her chest and knees, looking off to the side. Damn canopy drapes made her feel like a fool for doing so. What was she going to look at? The glorious opacity of black fabric that took her month to procure?

Cassandra waited a beat before placing a had on her shoulder. It glided up across her collarbone and up to her jawline, her thumb angling against her ear. She guided her eyes back to her -- Olivia couldn’t resist a touch like that. Something about her damn neck, the romantic urgency, that pulled at her.

“You worry.”

“You are one to talk.”

A chuckle. “Perhaps. But you may just have to trust me to say when I am displeased.”

Olivia raised her brows. “Forgive me, Pentaghast, if the recent circumstances inspire caution for me in that pursuit.”

Cassandra’s hand fell to rest on her forearm. In Olivia’s vulnerable longing, she held back the urge to ask for her to put it back where she had it. She chose instead to remain captivated in her look. It was so unprecedented in its adulation. None of her memories, save for the night in Montsimmard, compared to it. She wanted it in formulaic detail like one of her experimental substances bottled up for her personal access.

Not needing to be reminded of the reasons for Olivia’s hesitance, Cassandra glanced down at her hand. “I promised that I would explain, and I intend to keep that promise.”

Promises. Regardless of the distance, she had to give her that: Cassandra was good on a promise. Not always happy about it, but good on it. The waiting, though, that was what had gotten to her all this time. They had gone from being side-by-side in the field and in most every Inquisition matter, to repelling each other. And now this.

Olivia leaned into her touch, her eyes drifting to close. “Can you not explain now?”

Cassandra stiffened. “Is that what you want?”

“Can you think of a better time? We leave tomorrow morning, tonight is a banquet to send us off. They will expect me to soak in the time here before I leave.”

The Graves: the reminder that they had the absolute poorest timing about these things. Just as they had thrown themselves into irrevocable and foreign territory, she would do so again, but without all the fun of waking up tangled. Sod it all.

“You still will not allow me to come with you?”

Olivia rolled her lips. “Hey...remember when you were holding me and everything was quiet, and I--”

“Olivia.”

“...right.” Well, that was nice while it lasted. She sighed, taking hold of her hand before she took it away. “Cassandra...I do not wish to make this voyage anymore chaotic than it has been. I have taken advantage of my authority to bend deadlines and…”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes and leaned back, until she was up against the headboard. Their hands still stayed together. One mercy, in the softness that was straining under the weight of disagreement.

“You will not change the order because you wish to...save face?”

“It is not saving face for any particular person. You know as well as I that Leliana probably has full intelligence on what transpired and is reading it with her morning tea for a pick-me-up.”

“...Ugh, Maker.” Cassandra laid her head back and hung her palm on the crook of her neck. “Then what is your issue, if not looks?”

“It’s...it is that. It is looks. That, and...” she shook her head, “look, I have not forgotten about what Naomi told me. About the books.”

Cassandra frowned. “And what of it?”

Maybe she had woken up with assumptions as to how their love would change things in the immediate future. Who knows, maybe she had laid awake and fighting the desire to believe that everything would be rosey in the morning. Rosey as they could manage, anyway.

“You’re going to look at me like that and pretend it is a non-issue?”

“I do not care much for people analyzing my choices that are mine alone to make.”

“For someone who was reminding me that the world hands on our every choice--”

“Ugh, it was nothing. I made a choice that was...that is, for the betterment of myself as a member of the Inquisition.”

She sat up and pulled her legs out over the side of the bed, hands gripping the edge. As quick as she moved, though, she hesitated rising for good, and ending the veneer of their isolation. One thing was for certain, and that was they both were incapable of leaving things alone. Olivia took the opportunity in her hesitancy to crawl over. With renewed sympathy she wrapped her arms around her shoulders from behind, pulling her in against her. It was strange, just doing it, as if there was a new standard language between them. Strange, but relieving.

“Hey. I’m sorry...” she mumbled, resting her chin on her collarbone.

Cassandra was hard to disarm once she had the thought to do so. Her weight falling back into her was all she was willing to let on as far as her persuasion to stay was concerned. That was enough.

“I…” she relented as Olivia began to kiss up her neck. Slowly, with more comfort than lust. “I cannot deny that it has been difficult for me. But you would understand if I told you.”

Olivia tilted her head, leaning her cheek on her shoulder so as to look upon the side of her face. “What makes you so nervous to tell me?”

She clenched her jaw. “Because I know you. And I know…”

“Cassandra.”

She angled her head towards her, eyes peering down at her with burdened skepticism. It was hard to know the right thing to say, or the right way to feel. Secrecy, from someone like Cassandra, was not to be discounted as petty or conniving. It was earnest, and it was troubling. It was worth trying.

“We are on the same side,” Olivia comforted, rubbing her arm. “Whatever it is you found, it doesn’t change that.”

Cassandra sucked on her teeth and looked down at her lap. Her hand went to Olivia’s knee. “Maker help me, I hope you still believe that after this.”

\--

Cassandra did not incorporate fluff into her exposition, which made for the horrors she told even more harrowing on Olivia’s nerves. Even though it took nearly pulling teeth, when Cassandra confessed she confessed every last inch. The Seekers knew more than they ever admitted, and did more than they ever took the blame for. Tranquility, a rite that marred generations upon generations of Mages, had a longer and more treacherous history than she even knew. To be fair, as a Circle Mage, one gets used to being strategically kept out of the loop.

But it was a new world. Wasn’t it?

By the time the conversation came to a quelled and contemplative silence, they were both sitting against the headboard side-by-side. They had tucked the sheet over them. Over the course of the conversation Olivia had coiled herself from being sprawled, to hugging her knees as she did when Cassandra first woke. She kept her hands to herself.

“So.” Olivia hummed after a few minutes of stone-cold silence. She had let her have the floor for as long as she wanted. Rare form for her, considering her long-established affinity for arguing.

Hearing her break the tension, Cassandra leaned her head back against the wood frame. “Yes.”

“...Do you…”

“What?”

She paused. “Is there anything you feel is worth your vow to salvage them?”

She looked at her. Astonished, almost. What, had Cassandra been expecting a monster to erupt out of her mouth that entire time she kept away from her?

“That...that is your primary concern?”

“Uh, no,” she looked straight ahead, bunching her shoulders. “I have many concerns. You know how good I am at that.”

“...And yet.”

She exhaled. “Cassandra, the Seekers never did an ounce of good from where I stood at Ostwick. I would not say I am against their dissolution. I think...I think there are opportunities to imagine new ways of being. New realities that the Orders have no place in.”

A careful line to traverse. She meant what she said to her the night before: she could never lie to her. That also meant she could not fail in being who she was, not when the entire world witnessed her actions and kept detailed record.

“Before this, I would have disagreed. Now I am unsure of what it is I should believe.”

“I don’t think it is that unclear.”

“Oh? So what would you have me do?” she bit back, more defensive as she glanced at her. Her attention evoked heat in Olivia’s face.

“...I think...I think you should do what you believe is right”

“You and neutrality are far from a harmonious pairing.”

“This is not neutrality. This is...this is...shit.”

She finally let herself be uncomfortable, pulling her knees in closer as she sandwiched her palms between them and her face. Releasing a muffled groan, she knew there was no more hiding to be had. Not that it was ever her style. While she collapsed into herself, Cassandra folded her arms against her blanketed chest. Tight, ready for anything. When Olivia regained the strength to face it all, she peered over.

She looked the most torn she had ever seen her. Not even in her grief after the explosion at the Conclave, did she ever let so much strained dismay come up for air. Or, even worse to suspect: this was just the first time she had let the ongoing summation of her pain show.

“I cannot sever the voice of the Mage, of the woman, from the voice of the Inquisitor. Both would tell you Tranquility is mutilation, and that the Orders be damned for their use of it. Among their other crimes.”

“Yes, I know well enough.”

Olivia’s enthusiasm cautiously grew. “Then...then you must also know that this presents an opportunity to reverse some of damage. You said the Rite was reversed on you, why can it not be done for others?”

It was met with caution. “The reversal is an unpredictable process. Mages awaken from it irrational, and lose control of their emotions. I do not want this knowledge to become known until we can be sure it will help more than harm.”

“...And that can be arranged.”

She gave her another look of near-astonishment. Maker, her bar must have been low for this conversation.

“How?”

“Cassandra, we have some of the most talented Mages in Thedas here in our halls. Scholars, and Healers. If they knew there was a way to counteract this, I am sure progress could be made.”

For all of her brewing exuberance, the woman beside her kept up the reluctance. In those kinds of moments Olivia felt like a crashing wave in a storm against her. Abrasive and not entirely belonging. But this was a matter more important, more vital, than her discomfort.

“I do not know if that would be best.”

“But why?”

“This information has risks. This is the reversal of a process Ages old. How could you ensure no one would abuse it or co-opt it for their own gain?”

“What is to be exploited from helping Mages who have been brutalized be restored to the life of possibility they were robbed of?!”

“With the current state of the world, more than you or I could probably imagine.”

“Should that stop us from turning the tide for the sake of good? For change, justice, clarity--”

“Who are we to say that what we enact is any better than what has come before? Who can know if our actions will be depicted as heroic or disastrous?! You do not have to inspire me into action, Olivia. This is not something I want to fall into irrelevance. If I pursued this, I would hunt down every last surviving Seeker and tell them myself. I would have them read the book, as I have, and there would be no more secrets. No more shrouded injustices waiting for a heretic to uncover when the world is on the brink of destruction. It would be as it should have been.”

“What it “should” be? Cassandra, the Seekers were never meant to be anything except what they have been.”

“That is your view, but not mine.”

Olivia let her arms all on the bed with a thud. “Clearly!”

She pursed her lips and leaned her head away from her, brows rounded with suppressed attitude. Then, a mental torch came on. In a matter of seconds everything that had appeared obscenely abstract fell into place, illuminated. Cassandra had denied herself openness with her because she did not trust her hands to do anything but break before she could know the right thing to do. Waiting, deliberating, patiently letting days go on. It was ironic, coming from the woman who swore she wasted no time with mincing moralities.

Then again she had only two weeks with this realization. Two weeks, and hundreds of years of knowledge dumped on her lap by a maddened, power-hungry despot. In the Inquisition, two weeks could age you like a decade.

She loosened her arms that had begun to lose circulation around her legs. “You thought I’d take advantage of this crossroads in your path to discourage you, didn’t you?”

Cassandra stalled, stoic. No response was one in itself, as she so astutely pointed out in their argument when it was the other woman choking on her honesty.

Olivia sighed through her nose. With aggravated hands she combed through her hair, pushing it all back out of her face. “A warrior protecting her own until the end, no?"  


“Could you blame me?”

“Yes, I could. And I will. Thank you for asking.”

“Wonderful,” Cassandra said with exasperation.

“You hid this from me because you believed me a manipulator in waiting. And now I’m in bed with the person who’d see me as a villain just as much as a heroine. What does that speak of but mistrust?”

“My actions were just as much my own desire for self-preservation as they were for the sake of the Order I had dedicated my life to. Just as you are bound to your duty, I am…” she blinked slow. “I was...bound to mine. I admit I withheld out of fear. For that, I ask your forgiveness.”

Her face flushed. A little bit of her felt soiled for opening herself up like she did. Naked in more ways than she dared say, and only after she had done so did Cassandra see fit to confess. Everything in her -- every suspicious ounce of flesh she carried -- cringed with distrust. This was not the first time she laid in bed while a someone grieved for their complicity in various sins.

“Only if you promise not to do so again.” A steeled tone. It was not Olivia who had made the plea. It was the Inquisitor, a command in one hand and a judicious fist made of the other.

As Cassandra looked at her, folded arms loosening, she knew. The implicit shift would not need clarification.

“I will do my best. You have my word.”

Olivia rose a brow and returned her stare. “Then...we are on the same side. Still.”

This would be hard. This would be harder than hard. It would shut out of her comfort zone at every opportunity, and she could already tell. The first morning and the sound of locks changing on her echoed from a distant, unknown place. Through the slipping security, though, unforeseen connection:

“If it is against your belief to support me if I chose to rebuild the Seekers, you need not feign it to prove me wrong.”

Olivia looked up from her knees, where she had taken to picking at her nail beds. Well, that was a surprising advance. She scanned her face. Her disheartened eyes, and her flat-lined mouth. Willing to take the hard truth as penance for her actions.

“You mean that?”

“I would not say it if I didn’t.”

All this to protect the Order from the weight of Olivia’s opinion, and she was offering the chopping block up anyway. She had to hand it to her -- she knew how to go back on her missteps. From that point of view, she couldn’t blame her for her sequestering. No matter how she sliced it: the secrecy coming from Cassandra’s personal insecurities, or her interests as a member of an Order, the brevity of Olivia’s power was inescapable.

And there was work to be done. Work she could not do like she hungered to if Cassandra, and indeed any ally who drew their experience from imperfect places drenched in wrongdoing, were pushed away. Who was she, but a Mage encircled-turned-rogue, who by matter of luck lived in a time when her kind led an insurrection? 

She flattened out her legs and slouched in fatigue. Or, compassion, perhaps. “Is this what you really want?”

“It is not about what I want, it is about doing what is right.”

Olivia sighed. “You are allowed to want things, Cassandra. I would hope it would also be in line with the right thing, but who knows. You might wish for everyone to wake up with a crick in their neck, or an insect bite itching where they cannot reach. I’d prefer that over a facade of resignation.”

“...You find humor in everything, don’t you?”

“Only when someone isn’t being straight with me. And I know when someone isn’t. I grew up in the epicenter of detours in sincerity.”

Cassandra nodded slow and looked off to the side opposite her direction. Maybe that was a bad time to remind her she had gotten into bed with an Orlesian. _Whoops._

“And you would do as you said you would? Be transparent, and have integrity?”

“Yes. To the best of my ability.”

That last question felt redundant before she even said it. If she trusted anyone in the world to lead by example in those efforts, it would be her. Suddenly, the sensation of humiliation eroded. She remembered why she couldn’t get enough of her. She remembered why she looked to her. And then, she remembered why she respected her -- and it had nothing to do with the title in front of her name, or the descriptors that came after it. 

“Look, in only a year’s worth of time, I have seen so much through your eyes. I’d be lying if I said I was not moved by any of it. Even for someone like me who has found little safety in faith or formality, you...you never relent. You are never complacent. But it was never in spite of what made you a human, that I looked to you for grace.”

They broke their straight-ahead staring simultaneously in favor of each other. Cassandra’s astonishment was no longer half-realized. It was out there, for Olivia and the canopy drapes to see. That may have been enough, but Olivia was far from done in her testimony.

“Don’t give up on romance, Cassandra. None of it. None of the poetry, none of the sonnets. None of the cheap and tawdry serials Varric churns out. Don’t leave yourself parched of a single ounce of it. I can support you in this. I mean it. But please, please...do not kill your soul to save the Order’s. That is my condition.”

Cassandra had torn her eyes from her, save for her cringe at the mention of Varric’s work. A sign that she was trying to compose herself in the face of being beseeched. When Cassandra Pentaghast made decisions, she backed them harder than most any ally could. She was her own best reinforcement. But even the best of them needed someone to come along ever-so-often to tell them to put town the weapon. Olivia, of course, was better at prescribing it to others than she was to her own self. Much better. So much better, that to sweeten the pot she pulled back her part of the sheets and sat up. Swinging her leg around, she straddled her lap and centered herself rather than shy away, waiting for Cassandra to come back around. It mattered that much to her.

To her credit, Cassandra did not squirm. It wasn’t expected she would, but it was nice to be embraced rather than rejected when you took a swing at intimacy. Finding herself shyly welcomed, Olivia placed her hands on her shoulders and arched her back into her. Cassandra’s eyes flickered with a desire to wander a bit further south than her face.

“You, advocating for my love of romance?”

Olivia chuckled, nervous as Cassandra’s hands rest on her thighs. “Believe me, I do not make myself nauseated for just any woman.”

“A compelling argument. Your enthusiasm is contagious,” she retorted with sarcasm.

“You know, it is my specialty.” She slid a hand up to her cheek, and pressed her forehead to hers. Clearly holding no complaint, Cassandra closed her eyes. Her temples pulsed with pensive stress. It was enough to frown and hope.

“Please, Cassandra.”

A beat of silence, and then Cassandra lifted her chin. Eyes opening, she nodded once. “Alright. You do not have to twist my arm.”

Olivia smiled, sticking her tongue between her teeth as she pulled back. Cassandra, apparently in disagreement with the shift in closeness, gripped at her waist and held her in place.

“You argue well. But is your follow-through comparable?”

Playfulness had returned; it was in moderation, as was most everything with her save training and swordplay. But she would take what she could get. It sent butterflies in Olivia’s stomach flying as she settled back into her place on her lap, her hands wandering down Cassandra’s chest.

“It is about as skilled as your pillow talk.”

A chuckle. At last, a chuckle. Hearty, and warm, matched with a subtle smile. “Clearly, we share a distaste for indirectness.”

“Maybe. Although, I can tell you what I do have a taste for.”

Their lips veered in closer to each other, Olivia playfully dodging Cassandra’s final lean-in.

“And what is that…?”

Answering the best way she knew how, Olivia propped Cassandra’s chin up with her hand, and went in for the kiss she had been denying so coyly. She had gone a lifetime without knowing Cassandra’s kiss, and most of it without her even existing. Already half night’s sleep, and an hour of argument, felt like too long to wait in between them now.

Cassandra pulled her in even tighter, kissing back with a deeper passion than she had when they were ripping clothes off the revelation of their affinity. So this was what reverence tasted like. Olivia could only hope it was also informed by relief in being understood, or at least being met halfway.

Regardless, she couldn’t care less about what color the sky was on the other side of the canopy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I have been cranking out these Chapters at an excessive rate this week, but really it's just all derived from my desire to complete the current story arc. I thought the arc ended like, 3 Chapters before this one, but Olivia and Cass have minds of their own (whoops, loopy fic writer talking). So, now, this arc is completed! On to the Graves, etc.! (After I have a good cry and, idk, come up for air). Thank you so much for reading!


	69. Parting Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before the Inquisitor leaves for the Graves, and final orders and decisions have to be made. Leliana has seen reason to send one of the Inquisitor's friends along with the Seeker to the Hinterlands for more reasons than just the mission itself, causing tension between her and the Inquisitor. Olivia must decide once again whether to honor her work or her friendship, much as recent developments have left her sensitive to less-than-practical priorities.

  
9th Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon

Roslyn,  
Tell me why I have been informed by my Ambassador that a certain redheaded Mage has been curating rumors about my personal life in the barracks? That I have been sleeping with everyone from a stablehand named Frederick -- when we have no stablehand with that name -- to a Chevalier? Have you drank rancid wine? Please cease this and find some other way to tease me. I know you have the imagination for it.

With love,  
\- O  


  
9 Wintermarch

Lady Inquisitor,  
I have no idea what you are talking about. You must have the wrong redhead. There are many of us here, you know. I must say I do not appreciate being generalized. I know you are busy, but take care. I have feelings, too.

Love, Lyn  


  
9th Wintermarch

Roslyn,  
If it were not for my departure tomorrow morning, I would say you and me should duel at dawn. Given the circumstances, I will simply say this: if you must entertain yourself at my expense, use anything but a Chevalier. An envy demon would be more appealing, and would make for a more engrossing story. 

With love...tested, but true love,  
\- O  


\--

“This isn’t nearly enough.”

All eyes were on her as she perused. Population records, accounting for all Rebel and wayward Mages having been absorbed into the Inquisition forces back at Haven. Far from a policing, it was to ensure none went mysteriously missing or were unaccounted for when Templar troops were responsible for their safe escort from Redcliffe. The documents accounted for names, ages, Circle origins, among other things. But it was one marcation that mattered most to the Inquisitor ever since her morning conversation with Cassandra: how many were signified as tranquil.

“It is as I feared,” Olivia flipped another page. “Even if we doubled the prescribed rate of casualty on non-tranquil Mages estimated from the war, it isn’t enough to explain why they are so few.”

Cullen shifted from foot to foot. “We have no word from Redcliffe that any significant Rebel holdouts remain. For as far as we know, they have followed the King’s command to leave Ferelden.”

“These ledgers have been accounted for by both Mage leadership and myself. There is little possibility for mistake, I am afraid,” Josephine confirmed, a slight bleakness to her tone.

Olivia sprawled the sheets on her half of the table. The dissolution of the Circles left swaths of tranquil Mages caught in crosshairs. No longer finding themselves within the infrastructure that gave their status purpose and belonging, their fates relied on their connections to other Mages. That would have been fraught enough. Evidently there were more cracks to fall through.

“Shortly before we escaped Ostwick, I remember there being fearful whispers of what would happen with the Tranquil. Some feared execution, others abandonment. This still does not sit well with me that there are so few here.”

“By all accounts, Inquisitor, that may have been what has transpired.” Josephine set down her quill and board in order to take her copy of the numbers back into her hands. She had been that way since Olivia requested the information that morning: nervously attentive, some would even infer remorseful.

“That is what my investigation has suggested as well.” Leliana distanced herself from Josephine in favor of the table. “There are those who brought tranquil with them, but attested to the grave risk it was to do so. Many perished on on the journey to Redcliffe.”

Olivia pouted her lips onto one side of her face. Her thinking face. Mages who had bonded with Tranquil and couldn’t bear to leave them with the Circles fell. Once or twice she and the girls encountered them while they were abroad, finding their way to refuge. That was the exception more than the rule.

Everything was failing to add up, and Olivia was beating herself up for letting it all fly over her head.

“Seeker Pentaghast is traveling to the Hinterlands in two day’s time. We will send agents to continue investigating on the ground. I have a feeling Redcliffe is where we would find answers to this mystery.”

The Advisors looked to each other, expressions grim but in agreement. If they were confused or concerned as to the somewhat sudden fixation, they could hardly be blamed. She had almost single-handedly managed to throw in every last-minute complication leading up to her departure.

“Most of my on-hand agents have gone or will go with you to the Emerald Graves, Inquisitor. Did you have someone in mind?”

Few of the remaining agents at their disposal could be trusted adequately enough to follow through on a critical but discrete task. Someone who could understand what to look for even if it was not detailed in instructions sent with them. Someone who they could trust with knowing just how personally involved the Inquisitor was to the outcome.

Olivia rubbed her shoulder, a feeble attempt to quell the stress in her. Her gaze had found Redcliffe on the map. Not the farthest location for an agent to go, but not as close as it had been to Haven. Cassandra would be focused on security of the refugees and uprooting Venatori enclaves. Her landing in the region would make a wave.

“Leliana, I believe this is a discussion we can have between ourselves. Josephine, Cullen, you may leave and continue on with your priorities. Thank you again, Ambassador, for compiling these reports on such short notice.”

Josephine bowed her head while Cullen collected his reports and made for the door unceremoniously, as was his style. Once the tall door shut behind them, there was more room to breathe with brunt honesty.

“Which one do you have in mind?” Leliana asked, hands behind her waist. No time to be wasted.

Olivia took a deep breath. “Roslyn and Veronica have been performing best in training. It would make sense to send the one most able to defend themselves in the field.”

Leliana lowered her chin. “Yes. That would be smart, if their purpose would be ensuring security along with Seeker Pentaghast.”

“...We disagree in logic, then.”

She grinned. “It is common for us to do so, no?”

“To my dismay, yes.”

Leliana blew air through her nose, and paced across her side of the table in a slow, pensive pace. “I understand it was Veronica you have primed for recruitment as one of my agents. Veronica shows promise, I will not deny. But I believe an alternative to be best for this case.”

Olivia furrowed her brow. Leave it to Leliana to color outside the lines with a fervent grip on the paintbrush. “And that would be…?”

“Send Theia to Redcliffe, and I will know whether I can confirm what I have seen.”

Olivia snorted, lurching forward as a laugh of shock escaped her lungs. “Theia?”

“That is her name, yes?”

“Unfortunately.”

Leliana stilled, curious for the miniscule but present thorn in Olivia’s side for her best-friend-turned-taboo subordinate. In return, Olivia outlined her discomfort.

“Theia has been spending most all of her time working at the service of the Ambassador’s office. She has clearly chosen diplomacy over combat...or field duties...oh, ohoho, no. Look, I sympathize, but I am not sending Theia on assignment when she is not fit enough.” It all fell into place as she spoke: sealed, of course, by Leliana’s mouth widening into a clever smile.

“She has attended to her training. You said yourself that she is a talented Mage.”

“She is, but...she hasn’t been putting that into practice nearly as much as when she was at Ostwick. Even when we were traveling, she was more practiced than she is now.”

“What better practice to have than a reminder of one’s responsibility to all their skills, and not just the ones which favor their current tastes?”

“Leliana.”

The conversation had turned from one of clever prodding to outright conspiration that left an uneasy ache in Olivia’s stomach. It wasn’t that Theia was inadequate, or that she couldn’t handle herself in a fight. It was the fact that Olivia herself had never known danger or adversaries like the ones she faced as Inquisitor; so much so that even a diluted experience for one of her friends scared her on their behalf. Demons and venatori were not drunken assailants in tavern halls or angry beasts in the woods.

Olivia sighed and leaned her hip against the table edge. “Theia and I have not been on the best of terms. But I do not think it wise to challenge her as a punishment for behavior she does not know is out of bounds.”

“I think she knows full well, all due respect, Inquisitor. After all, was it not your direct word that she work and work alone?”

“I said that she and Veronica could not indulge in their back-and-forth games while living here. She has abided by that. They both have, in fact.”

“So she has found a substitution.”

“You think Josephine is the kind of woman to be understated as a substitute? Name someone here that isn’t secretly in love with Josephine Montilyet and I will show you a dead-and-buried corpse.”

Leliana’s face strained with a mixture of distaste and honest reckoning. Early on it had become clear that Sister Nightingale had a particular concern for the affairs and wellbeing for the Inquisition’s Chief Diplomat. They had history, after all. It was not outlandish that she take note of anyone, let alone a lesser-ranked staff, showing fondness. Leliana straightened her shoulders and stood still. The time for pacing and dodging the bare joint of the issue was over.

“Does sending her to the Hinterlands with Cassandra not bode well for you for other reasons besides you thinking her underprepared, Inquisitor?”

Olivia pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Her jaw cracked with sudden pressure. There it was. On the nose, cut, sliced, and served. It had only taken, what, hours? The bed hadn’t a chance to grow cold from her and Cassandra’s occupation.

“Not at all. I trust both women to be professional and dedicated to their responsibilities. Neither, for example, would play a gambit at my expense in order to see that an agent was dismissed conveniently like a mistress at Court.”

“If there are no bars on the decision, then I do not see reason for your hesitance.”

“You do not have to see it for me to have it.”

“Whose role is it if not my own to see the logic behind circumstances, Inquisitor?”

“A compelling argument for a woman who is conveniently shielding her eyes from the problematic nature of her own in this moment.” Olivia’s grip on her wrist behind her waist tightened and rotated, grinding leather glove against leather glove. Who knew out of the emotions she could have been compelled to feel for her distanced friend, it would be protective aggression?

“Leliana, you share my concern for Theia’s actions. I do not wish to see any subterfuge manifest where there need not be. But I am not jeopardizing my friend’s safety so that you may preserve the blissful ignorance of yours.”

“You would exchange one fallout for another if you do not focus your friend on our cause. She is not here provide herself idle solace for her misadventures. Just as you have settled your attachments to who you once were, she must.”

“They have not fought together, her and Cassandra. She has not fought alongside warriors. Theia is not me, she does not alternate weaponry to fit her fight. She is a gifted elemental Mage but she has been primed like a lethal trophy, not a soldier.”

“If she is sent on behalf of your investigation she need not spend as much time in the field. She would be sent to research, not to fight.”

“We both know those tasks bleed into one another for us. It is not so simple as to establish lines between violent and non-violent circumstances.”

A beat of pause. Olivia took in the abrasions and dirt collected on the floor from her and Cullen having come in from the Battlements. It had rained in the midday, and their boots were caked with mud and grass shavings. Dirty business, running a fortress. But what was even dirtier was what went on behind the guise of clerical cleanliness.

“You would not be so bent on this if you thought Josephine unaffected.” Her eyes sliced upwards to Leliana’s. She wasn’t ready to back down. Not yet.

“The Ambassador does not have the time to humor something so trivial,” Leliana rejected, as unwavering as stone.

“I don’t believe that for a second. You have seen things I have not had the chance to, haven’t you? I have seen the flowers, the time spent at her service instead of in training. I have seen the way she has so cooly broken from her pining for Veronica. But you, my most excellent Spymaster, have seen something requiring more expedient action, no?”

Leliana’s playful grin faded while Olivia’s grew. Another piece had been moved on the board, and a rather troublesome one.

“What was it, Leliana? More flowers, maybe with a letter included? A stolen moment in the gardens?”

“What I have seen, Inquisitor...is not nearly as important as the fire which you play with should you allow this to continue. I may have an eye for the unseen details, but such lapses in discipline will quickly become known to more people besides myself. What will that say of your loyalty to your friend who is left loveless while the other reaches too high without sanction?”

Oh no. Veronica. The one she had promised to nip any antics in the bud as far as Theia was concerned. Had Leliana really planted eyes and ears so far into Olivia’s personal life that she could interpret the bigger picture far more competently than she, herself could? That was a silly question to ponder. Of course she had. The sky would crack like pottery before Olivia would be allowed to escape into her own personal life for a day or two.

“If you make distance, and allow her to realize the realities our people face across Thedas fighting on our behalf, you will avoid a great deal of strife. Serving Josephine has imparted knowledge of Inquisition politics, including those concerning Mages. She would fit this assignment well. It is not only my desires I take into account, much as you deny me the credit for it.”

“That is not true, Leliana.”

“Hm.” Leliana scanned across the map, beginning with the side belonging to Orlais, Nevarra, and the Imperium, before landing in Ferelden. Their dynamic had not been the same since that night Olivia went rogue for one night more on behalf of her friends. It had improved since the dispute, but not fully recovered to what it once was. They were both women defined by their loyalties, and when those loyalties interjected rather than paralleled, much had shifted.

“This discussion can wait for your return from the Emerald Graves. As always, Inquisitor, your choice is yours to make. I have provided my point of view. I do hope you consider it.”

Olivia grit her jaw some more as she, too, honed on the map between them.

“I will. As always.”

\--

Ironically, the place to find Theia so close to the evening banquet was in the armory. As if it wouldn’t be painful enough to approach her, it would be during one of the rare times she was actually doing what she was supposed to. For weeks, daydreams of the first conversation had ran through Olivia’s mind. Sure, they had said hellos, the occasional “how are you” was uttered in passing on mornings when they crossed paths in the Ambassador’s office. But nothing substantial -- nothing that reminded Olivia of the predominant emotion Theia evoked in her.

Guilt. Complicated guilt, but guilt all the same.

When she arrived, Theia was unwrapping her hands free of the linen bandages for hand-to-hand sparring. She was dressed in a vest and pants, with her hair braided over her shoulder. Sweat glistened on her forehead and shoulders, lit up by the mounted torches on either side of the long and stocked room. She was tired. It was in her face and in her posture. Tired, but not without humor.

Having dressed for the banquet before coming to see her, compared to Theia Olivia was out of place in her immediate surroundings. She couldn’t let that stop her, though.

“Hard day?”

Theia looked up, eyes going wide as plates. She froze like she was encountering a spirit.

“...Olivia…” she breathed, “y-you...you looking for someone? Or…”

Olivia shook her head once. “No, no one but you.”

As if it were possible, Theia grew paler as she snapped herself out of her shock, slowly resuming her unraveling. Dark stains, hopefully from her opponent.

“I...I wasn’t expecting you. Shouldn’t you be in the Hall?” Theia turned to face corner, chin tucked as she flexed her uncovered right hand. As Olivia drew nearer she could see that, alas, the blood had come from Theia’s own knuckles.

“I should be in a lot of places.” Olivia came to a humble bucket of water on the table nearby. Waving a hand over the top, she discharged a simple ice spell to chill it. Once enough, she grabbed the rag beside the bucket and soaked it. Wringing it out, she approached her, folding it messily into a thick square.

“I remember when training had my hands looking like this,” she mused, taking Theia’s hand and pressing down with the cloth. “Everything from writing to lacing my boots was agony. Blackwall and Cullen used to tease that I should stick them in the snow.”

Theia was stick straight other than her hand. Still pale, still uneasy. A piece meal that wasn’t quite enough, but one all the same. Eventually after a few dabs the blood wore off, and Olivia flipped the cloth onto the clean side.

“Press on it for a few minutes, but no more than that.” She held the cloth out, eyes flickering up to Theia’s face as much as she could muster. The thing about Theia that was always so hard to avoid, ever since the day they met, was looking her in the eyes. Her purple irises were so bright and deep simultaneously, like ocean water. It was no bombshell that every person in the Circle was always at least slightly captivated by her. With those eyes and a head of pearl-colored hair she looked like a mural heroine come to life. When she looked you in the eyes, and smiled that cool smile, the world went still.

At least, that was what they said. For Olivia, the only time she found it hard was when she couldn’t bear to be honest. For her own sake, hopefully Theia had forgotten that intrinsic quirk.

She did not take the cloth immediately, but when she did she was slow and attentive of the hand in which she offered it: the one from which the green glow of the anchor dwelled. Her staring made Olivia retract it and press it into her black skirt.

“It...it looks like your hand has a ore in it,” Theia said as she tended to her injury. “Does it hurt?”

“It used to. Sometimes it still does. It depends on what my surroundings are,” Olivia replied, rubbing it against herself. “Most of the time it...simmers, if that makes any sense.”

Theia smirked. “My storm magic is like that at times. It feels like my limbs are humming.”

“Yes. It’s so odd. I feel like a--”

“Like a hollow drum, yes?”

“Right!”

Theia cracked a sorry smile, chuckling under her breath as she lowered her attention back on her hands. Olivia bit back her own grin, but the signs brewed under her skin: her face was warm, her eyes widened, her cheeks tense.

“...Theia, I,” she hesitated as she searched for the impossibly right words after having gone so long without. “I have to talk to you.”

“Have I done something wrong?” Theia’s brow furrowed as she looked up.

“No! Well...not...not to your knowledge, which is…”

“Not to my knowledge? So I have?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

She would have continued, but Theia turned and distanced herself. As she walked her few steps away from her, hand still pressing her knuckles with the cold cloth, she looked like a woman who touched what could only burn her. Olivia’s chest sunk, not having much air to begin with in her dread. She clung unto one of her tear-shaped earrings, and lagged behind her.

“Theia.”

“I swear, Olivia, if I did something wrong it was not my intention. I’ve been doing my best to make up for it all. Maker, I haven’t so much as breathed in Veronica’s direction in weeks.” She halted in place with her boot heel dragging to a stop. It sent a shiver up Olivia’s spine.

“I know it was not. I am not here to chide you. I came here because I have a very important...question, I suppose.”

“A question? About what?”

It was then, just as Olivia had managed to look at her in the face again, that she noticed the color in them. The flickering brightness. Suppressed hope: an expression she had seen so many times in her throughout the years.

“The...look, about your work for the Ambassador, I…”

At the instant she mentioned Josephine, the light in her friend’s eyes grew even more incandescent. A smile to match them appeared. Soft, but enlightened. Oh, dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

“The Ambassador? Oh!” she switched the compress from one hand to the other. “What about her?”

Theia was never good about being coy. She wore her happiness on her sleeves like embellished beadwork, ready for the admiring. But it had been so long since Olivia had known what it looked like out in the open: unabashed foolishness for the sake of itself.

With pain she smiled and clarified. “I...I was just wondering how you were adjusting. I worried you would find the work lackluster.”

“Lackluster? Hah!” she shook her head, “I’ll admit, at first I was disappointed. You know me, I have always just assumed being an Enchanter was my one talent. I thought I belonged out in the field or in the tower. But...but the Ambassador, she’s…” she looked out to the wall of hanging swords and spears, but clearly her mind’s eye was elsewhere. “She is remarkable. Intelligent, kind, capable...she is unlike any of the political officials my family brought around that I can remember. You know, she used to attend my Great Aunt’s annual Ball? If my family hadn’t locked me away from the time I was small on account of my magic, I could have met her...that is so funny to me.”

“Oh. That...that is good to hear. Josephine is quite amazing,” Olivia choked out, meaning every word.

“She is. I am so jealous you are on a first-name basis with her. She has such a beautiful name, is all…” she bit her lip with a harmlessly devious look, “...Josephine. It’s so sophisticated. Not short and boring like mine.”

“Theia, you have a beautiful name.”

“You think so?” Theia tilted her chin and eyed her, her smile seeming immortal. “I can remember a time when you would mock it.”

Olivia scoffed. “I never did such a thing. That was--”

“Hah! Lies! You used to rhyme it with every word you could mispronounce the end with “uh.” Like you were getting punched in the gut! Theia the fair-uh, Theia please stay-uh!”

“That! That was...! Agh!” she rolled her eyes and turned away, folding her arms. The chump of the joke where Theia was concerned. “I was no older than nineteen. That was a lifetime ago.”

Theia’s smile fell a bit. Her tone slowed, and ached anew. “Indeed, it might have been.”

Olivia paused and watched her press with rhythm on her blistered hands. It was difficult to hold lack of dedication to combat against her when she was nursing her wounds from the practice of it. Even more so that she spoke with such high and invigorated regard for Josephine. Josephine deserved nothing less than that.

“Do you...is that…” Olivia was tripping and fumbling in her thoughts more than she ever had on her own two feet. “Is that the extent of your regard for her?”

She immediately shot her a casually suspicious glance. “My regard for her? You mean…”

Olivia rolled her lip. Confirmation enough for Theia to continue.

“...Oh. You do mean that. What, have the Mages been gossiping up there in that tower of yours?”

“It is not ‘my’ tower. And if they are, I doubt it holds a candle to what they discuss about me.” A lie. The answer was a solid yes, they had been, and probably were, among other things. Veronica and Roslyn had confirmed as much. For the sake of the tightrope she walked facing her about it, though, the conveniently neglected that detail.

Theia’s eyes narrowed with skepticism. “Don’t you have eyes in every room and ears against every door? Shouldn’t you know the truth?”

“I should, which is why I have come and asked.”

“Pfft, you have gone this long in the dark with concerns for my personal affairs.”

“Do not play with me. I asked a simple question.”

“You have insinuated that I do not practice honor in my work.”

Olivia rolled her eyes and stepped closer to her, as she removed the rag from her clean but torn up knuckles. “I am not insinuating anything. I just want to know: do you, or do you not, harbor admirations for Josephine that are beyond work?”

“Does it matter if I do? I cannot act upon them. I can’t control my heart, either.”

“Ugh, that is not an answer!”

“And your question is not a question. It is an accusation. You have not bothered to sit down with me and ask me my thoughts or my feelings since I have arrived. You have come here because for some reason it is no longer comfortable to ignore me, for whatever reason. I am not a fool, Olivia. What have you been told? That I hide in her desk and get my fingers caught in her robe strings?!”

“I have been told by my Spymaster that I should send you to the Hinterlands on assignment to teach you a lesson about keeping your nose in your own business! That is what I have been told, Theia! Don’t you dare sneer at me for being occupied with my role, for it is vastly more complicated and taxing than you will ever know!”

All in an instant, the carefully tied bow came undone. From behind the veil of her lofty position and accolades, Olivia had stepped squarely into who she had once been: unable to talk down to her best friend, and yet still clinging to her pride.

Theia, all the while, manifested a look of offended horror on her face.

“That...that woman with the hood and the ravens…”

“Her name is Leliana.”

“That woman who looks like she is ready to kill and disembowel someone as much as take a cup of tea in the afternoon?”

“Yes, her,” Olivia groaned, “She is also a veteran of the fifth blight, and former Left Hand of the Divine, but of course, Theia, reduce her to her day-to-day hobbies.”

She growled. “What does it matter to me Olivia, when she desires to push my life around like a damn chess piece? What have I ever done to her?!”

“You’ve gotten starry-eyed for one of her only friends she has, Theia, and now I have to either shield you from her machinations or shield myself if I don’t. For some reason or another you have crossed a line, and she thinks it best that I remind you of why you are here.”

“I am here because you are.” Theia stopped, mulling over her words to derive the audacity, “You are my best friend, and that is what I have always done. I have always followed you. I am not here at her service, or anyone else’s, but yours.”

The candid adulation overran Olivia in every possible way. Frustrated beyond comprehension, she threw her hands up in the air and turned her back on her to face the opposite wall.

“Dammit, Theia. Shit...fucking...dammit! You always do this!”

“Oh, do what, Olivia? Last I heard, I was spineless and sulking!”

“You get yourself into these messes and act as if you are so in control when you are anything but! I know you! You can give me all the good answers, but I know when you are alone and with her you gamble with wealth you do not have!”

Theia threw the rag to the table, her arm swinging around with repudiative discontent from one side to the other. “And is that so bad!?”

Screaming was a tempting idea. Screaming yes, yes, of course it is, you fumbling, charismatic idiot. When it came to arguing this way her tactics were yell faster and louder until the vitality of her side overwhelmed the enemy. A hard-won tool, not always successful -- as Cassandra had proven so well -- but before Cassandra, there was Theia. What Cassandra knew as a difficult personality, Theia had helped deconstruct from enraging infallibility. Even worse was the way she looked, like she had managed to find a piece of bread to hide for herself. Maybe she had. Perhaps the most expensive loaf on the shelf, but still. It was for genuine hunger.

“Agh!” Theia growled again, turning away and undoing her hair braid. “You remember what it was like, Olivia. The years, and...years,” she stressed the second utterance of the word, “the years of wanting someone who wanted anything other than love. Someone who knew how to suck me back in after pushing me away. Is it so ridiculous that I have healed by rekindling my hope that a woman could be formidable without being callous? That a woman like that could...could show me favor if I proved myself enough?”

Olivia had picked the wrong time to cave into long-brewing love and heartfelt devotion, for like a dam cracked at its core she was stuck holding back the pressure of the flood. Her face relaxed into sympathetic grief, and her eyes wandered the weaponry on the walls. She did remember. Vividly, and with remorse that she could not have been the brave friend and tell her to stop chasing. A regret she would carry, even if it would be weathered into dust on her spirit, for a long time.

A regret she would not conjure a second time.

“Theia, I understand that you are moving on, and I am happy that you are. But Josephine is not here to unfold for you a singular happy ending, and I am not here to be your tag-along companion on your wrong decisions. I am sending you to the Hinterlands because there are matters to attend to that I can only trust to a friend. You will go the day after tomorrow with the Seeker and her men.”

Theia scowled softly took a step towards her. “Is that your final order?”

“Yes.”

Theia side-stepped. “You know, Olivia,” she chuckled humorlessly, shaking her head, “sometimes I did not want to follow you on your misadventures. Sometimes I wished you would just stop, and you would not toy with fate to prove your worth. But did I ever stay back when you ran into the viper’s nest? Did I ever make you fend for yourself?”

Dammit. Olivia bit down on her tongue. Most of the bravado she had left her, and her voice fell short of breath. “No. No you didn’t.”

“No. I did not. There I was, with the solace of thinking you would return the favor when the time came. How silly I was. Goodnight, Lady Inquisitor. I am honored you have put such exorbitant faith in me to do the thing I have always done at your beck-and-call.”

Theia let her hair fall to her back, long enough to reach her waist, before heading for the door. In her absence the room warmed up as the woman in all her fire was abandoned by her friend in all of her frigid loneliness.

On her tongue, the request that she write to her had stalled and wilted. So much for redeeming first conversations. So much for hoping aftermath would lead to something other than more burning. Olivia pressed her fingers onto her chest, tucking one arm under her elbow, and tried her best to keep her heart plastered together in all its pieces. It was not the time to dig up the ghost of who she was and pretend she could be her again.

\--

The sky had grown dark, and the gardens were drenched in firelight and the flying bugs that lucidly glowed amongst the sparse greenery. Everyone had vacated in favor of the festivities in the Hall and tavern, depending on what social echelon you took good company in. That left Olivia feeling rather privileged for being able to meet Cassandra in the secluded garden hall outside the prayer altar.

The Seeker herself was dressed in heavier armor with a sword on her hip and a cloak tied around her shoulders. Not party attire in the least, but still captivating.

“You know,” Olivia joked as they stood together, “I had prepared myself for an increased proximity to religious relics in being with you. I just did not think it would enact itself so quickly.”

Cassandra eyed her as she sat against the half-wall of stone “Forgive me, I thought it was your wish that I retain my faith? You were the one who wanted to meet.”

Olivia stood alone in the space of the hall, grinding the stone beneath one of her shoes. “Is it so deplorable that I desired to see you before I leave?”

“No. In fact, it is appreciated. I only wish you did not time your departures in the early mornings of my night guard shifts.”

“You know me, if the circumstance does not involve inconvenience, it does not involve me.” The Inquisitor looked down either end of the hallway. No face or voice, no presence to suspect. Yet, being out of her chambers and in Cassandra’s presence posed vulnerability. Then again, so did leaving without her. She came closer for the sake of discretion and folded her arms.

“I am sending Theia with you to the Hinterlands. She is going to investigate the whereabouts of the missing Tranquil on my behalf, so that you may focus on your duties.”

Cassandra’s eyes went wider. “The one with the white hair who scarcely trains?”

“Yes, her. Why is it that all of my associates only know each other by their unsavory reputations?” Olivia twitched her head, shoulders bunching. It had been a long day of she said, she said.

Cassandra tilted her chin. “I see my suggestion of Veronica or Roslyn fell on uninterested ears.”

“Leliana’s, more like.”

“That is what I meant.”

Olivia came closer still, until her gown skirt hugged Cassandra’s lower leg. “Theia has caught her attention for all the wrong reasons. I’m afraid it is a means to an end for more dilemmas than just the Tranquil.”

Cassandra looked unimpressed with the inference to drama, and looked out towards the hall. “I thought this was about a mission for Inquisition affairs, and not catering to interpersonal intrigues.”

“Look, I know that, alright,” Olivia huffed, her hands out in front of her face in defense of herself. “I know. I also know that if anything happens to either of you I will descend into open madness and no container of wine or wagon of straw will be excluded in my need of kindling. I am just trying to make sure everyone feels listened to, and are listened to. And the last thing I should be worrying about is Theia being left to Leliana’s oversight while I am gone.” She spun around and took her place beside her on the wall, flattening out her gown fabric beneath her seat before doing so. Her shoulder pressed up against Cassandra’s, but the collision of armor and formal wear was not so seamless and combination as their bodies had felt that morning.

Cassandra glanced at her, chin up, and principled but impatient expression remaining. “You let so many people pull you in every direction. You should have faith in your self to see you through. You have earned that enough.”

There she went again, speaking with such succinct honesty the problem that felt so vast in Olivia’s subconscious. She was so good at that. She would miss it.

“Hm,” Olivia held a dry laugh in her throat, “I suppose I am simply used to it.”

“It is a habit I am sure I helped to form.” Cassandra scooted her foot straight out. 

“Yes, but you are behind years worth of childhood and Circle training. In comparison I am afraid you are but one string in the tapestry of painful self-awareness.”

Cassandra smirked, and leaned a bit more against her. “Your practice at romance is yielding conservative improvement.”

Olivia let her tired laugh escape that time. Hunching forward, she pressed her palms together between her thighs. Sending Cassandra in the opposite direction of her seemed like a wonderful idea at the time. Granted, it was in a place of outright anger, jealousy, and resentment at her own repression. Even so, the instinctive remorse endured. She looked at her and found her already staring back, eyes bright face relaxed in its proud semblance. In her upstanding posture and dignity there was a shelter. Shelter she would have to go without.

“Are you sure you cannot come to me tonight? Or even enjoy the banquet for a bit? I still am owed a dance from Santinalia, remember?”

Cassandra’s grin widened, and she looked across to Olivia’s lap. “I cannot. I am to report to the outpost for the shift change in an hour. And besides, I hardly improve upon parties.”

“Blast the party, just climb up my balcony if you want a dance,” Olivia smiled and bit her lip, “one that would not require stiff regalia.”

The Seeker looked away, though it was difficult to decipher if it was due to embarrassment or temptation that she concealed a slight blush. Finally allowing herself to embrace their solitude, Olivia placed her hand on her arm.

“Be safe. Be smart. Do not throw yourself into peril without me there to gallantly rescue you.”

She shot her a feisty look of rebuke. “Surely, Inquisitor, I have handled myself well-enough all these years without your protection.”

Olivia giggled, her fingers going to her lips. “It doesn’t take much with you, does it?”

“You have chosen the wrong woman if you wanted an appreciation for understatement..”

“Perhaps. I suppose it would be normal for us to part with argument. Get our fill of it to last us through the weeks.”

Cassandra paused, then chuckled in concession. “I guess it would be. Are you...certain...sending your friend is best? I could simply distribute my time to both endeavors.”

“No, it was me who designed this mission, and I would see that you would be supported in it. Besides, it would just mean you have more time to do what you do and enjoy best.”

“Fighting?”

“You know it.”

They stared at each other wordlessly and pleasantly content, before Cassandra’s lips parted. She became nervous, like it was now or never.

“I...I have brought something for you.” She looked to her side opposite Olivia and reached into her side satchel hooked onto her belt. She uncovered a small book no larger than her gloved hand, and thin, too. It was worn, the cover frayed at the edges and binding uneven.

“I recovered my library this morning, shortly after I left your quarters. This is one that I thought you would tolerate, perhaps even grow to enjoy,” she said as she placed it into her hands. Olivia rubbed the cover with her fingers, the felt texture like the old books in her father’s library all those years ago. Also reminiscent of books she left untouched in the Circle reserves, deemed irrelevant to her desired knowledges.

“Is it poetry?” She asked in return, holding it in her lap.

“It is. Rather...bleak, poetry.”

“Bleak?” Olivia giggled, “Shit, if you say so, it must be grotesque.”

Cassandra shook her head. “They are lamentations on mortality and grief. There are a few which are more...amorous, but I will leave it to you to discover which ones.”

She looked so thoughtful, so careful. Steady in her words, as if she had rehearsed them like verses. Never did Olivia think she would see the day where the gift of written words that were not studious or empirical would honor her in such a profound way, and so effortlessly too. Yet, as Cassandra spoke, her grip on the book only strengthened. She deprived herself of getting lost in her face, and blinked her eyes clear.

“I will. It won’t be the same without you there to read it to me, though. Or provide annotations to almost every line in live time.”

The Seeker’s anticipatory look melted into endeared impatience. “Ugh, it is not every line.”

“Cassandra.”

“It is not!”

“It took you an hour to read me five pages at Crestwood. Five!” she laughed, holding the book against her stomach.

She glared. “The lighting in the tent was parse. I had to read slow.”

Olivia gave a nod, and her excitedness settled. Was this what easiness felt like? To be in place and know there was nowhere else you wished to be, nor hoped to belong? If it was, she wished she could bottle it up and preserve it in her cellar. Or maybe in a flask for further inquiry as to its ingredients.

Regardless, it was not to last. They both knew. Which was why the book, even with it being atypical of her taste, was so special.

“Write to me, Pentaghast,” she teased to fend off the surmounting soreness, nudging her in the shoulder with her own. “For I will need to send my literary criticisms somewhere.”

Cassandra smiled. “I had hoped for nothing less.”

Olivia stepped away from the wall then, rising to her feet and turning to face her as she had before. Only, she had something clutched close to her to take with her back to the crowded room full of food, wine, and voices. She would need to slip away for a moment to tuck it away in her room, to be sure. A worthy sacrifice of time.

“There is also something else,” Cassandra added, standing as well. “Something that...I wished to do, but lacked the confidence to this morning. I admit, it is new for me, to desire to do it, I mean. Given it has only ever been done to me.”

Olivia lifted a brow. “Oh? Is this appropriate for a fortress garden?”

“I...no...I mean, yes. I...I believe so. Maker.” Cassandra was getting the guts assembled for whatever it was, and it was concerning that she was so off-kilter. What was it? Prayer out loud? Making out in front of Andraste’s statue? Now, there was something Olivia could entertain.

But, true to form, it was nothing blasphemous. Cassandra came to her in a swoop of bravery and placed her hands on her shoulders. With nervous indulgence she pressed her lips to Olivia’s forehead, and held them there. As if she had not already won the prize for being the most proficient at catching her off guard only to melt the walls around her heart, she went above and beyond. Olivia stayed in place, not daring to scare her off or lose out on the moment. She let her lids close. For a few seconds everything fell away and comfort had come home to her.

When she pulled away, Olivia gripped the rim of her breastplate, holding her place close to her.

“That...that was what intimidated you?” she asked with sincere concern.

Cassandra blinked and took in breath, looking relieved that her choice was not met with ire. “...is that foolish of me?”

She smirked. “No, but now I wish I could flaunt it that I made Seeker Cassandra daunted by the notion of kissing me on the forehead.”

“Ugh,” Cassandra tilted her head back a bit, “I knew you would meet this with irrever--”

Olivia cut her off in her lamentation, rising onto her toes and returning the favor. Cassandra’s forehead was warm and soft, and stray ends of her hair got caught between her lips and her skin. There was no reason why risks could not be taken as their enemies had been: with them side-by-side, unafraid to match what the other was willing to try.

Stepping back, she returned her gaze to her, and let go of her. Cassandra’s eyes were rounded. She, too, had not known such tenderness nearly as much as she deserved to.

“Ride and fight well, Seeker,” Olivia said hushed, her hand touching the side of her waist. “I will be waiting.”

Cassandra softened, and she took hold of Olivia’s hand as she backed away, making it the last connection they would have before parting in opposite paths. “As I will for you. Maker watch over you, Inquisitor.”

A last smile with worried eyes, and her hand fell out of reach. Holding onto the book for dear life against the side of her chest, she turned around to face the path ahead of her. The image of Cassandra standing in the hall watching her leave branded itself into her being. To the Graves she would go, and with a piece of her endlessly longing for elsewhere.


	70. What Cowardice Reaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor and her allies are making progress in the Emerald Graves region, combating the embedded Freemen resistance and finally recapturing Villa Maurel. Being surrounded by the buildings and mainstays of her home culture has proven jading, as everyone seems to wonder how she feels faced with the consequences of the Civil War. All the while, she struggles through emotional growing pains that come with new love, the challenge of distance, and going back on oaths to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Sexual self-gratification, discussion of sex, discussion of nudity.

10th Wintermarch, 9:42 Dragon

I wished to begin this note with your title so that, perhaps, you would be surprised as to who wrote it. Fortunately, I find myself in a candid mood. I know I could never say a goodbye that would satiate us, but I thought it would be nice for you to return from night watch to something tucked underneath your door.

Folded in this letter, you will find something of odd materiality. It is a silverite pendant and chain, modeled after a heroine of dance and art in one of Orlesian’s most prolific folktales. It was a gift to me from my Father for my 14th birthday, to commemorate my debut performance at the Capitol opera house. I know what you must be wondering -- she danced? In operas, no less? Rest assured there are many secrets I have left untold, even in my clumsiness.

I figured that it would be safely kept in your possession and serve as a promise that I will return to reclaim it should you find it too opulent for your style. A last-minute gift in return for the book you have so kindly loaned so that I may educate myself properly.

Take care, Seeker. Remember that had I not earnestly believed this to be the better place for your work, I would have wasted no breath waiting to ask you to come with me. Given that it is us charting new ground, I will send correspondence to Redcliffe as soon as I can.

Protect that which I value, please. As well as the necklace, if you can.

Most sincerely,

Inquisitor Sinclair  


\--

_One month later, in the heart of the Dales region --_

The first day in the Graves was breathtaking, like stumbling into a dreamed dimension that had become polluted with the fumblings of men. Olivia had expected it to be somber given all the history she had read -- the war, the Exalted March, the recent desolation due to the Civil War. What she did not expect, or perhaps did not let in, was the beauty it promised. Beauty, and misery. 

The habit of keeping promises of when and where to write was wearing down to dust. Promises to Cassandra, Naomi, Josephine, and Sera had eroded into adrift wishes for ‘tomorrow.’ Two weeks travel to the Graves, another two spent settling camps and ensuring that they were not woken up with arrows and spears flying into camps with each new dawn, and a few more days until they were able to recapture the occupied Villa Maurel from the clutches of the blasted Freemen. There had not been such a miserable field of scrappy wilderness fighting since their time subduing the embers of Rebellion in the Hinterlands.

Given all that, she was satisfied with her choice to bring Solas, Blackwall, and Bull as her close combat allies. Satisfied, and ready to turn off everything in her mind that functioned for Game playing and fortress romantics. And besides, who wouldn’t prefer being thrown like a projectile by a Qunari Ben-Hassrath across a courtyard, spinning blades like they were your dragonfly wings, over settling political slights?

“Agh! Boss, that was excellent. Just like we practiced,” Bull called out as she came stepping down the garden steps, yanking one of her dual blades from a corpse at her feet. Her armor was splattered in blood and sweat stung her vision. Drops of scattered rain invisible to the naked eye fell around them, causing a chill in her cheeks.

“I was a little tense on the landing,” she countered as she examined her dirty blade for any hints of damage. “I think I need to nix the flip. What do you think?”

Bull wielded his ax around like he was taking aim with a cleaver in the direction of a dead Freeman, half-hearted. He reached back and hooked the weapon on his back. “Eh, keep it. It makes things quirky.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she huffed, coming to stand across from him. They were regrouping into a rough circle as Solas came forth from the colonnade hall. Blackwall was last to resurface, having checked down the opposite wing corridor for lagging reinforcements, sword and shield bared.

“Looks clear to me,” the bearded Warden confirmed. “Nothing but loot and garbage.”

That meant the Villa was finally smoked out of those ridiculous men for good, unless they were expecting anymore company. By the looks of it though, it seemed the Freemen weren’t much for outside guests – unless, of course, you were offering lucrative deals on underhanded thievery. Though, the opportunity to take a breath ought never to be wasted. Olivia sheathed her blades on the back of her belt and wiped her face. Meanwhile, Blackwall pulled his copy of their map, crouching down to the ground and spreading it flat across the level, though unmanicured lawn.

“This looks to be all we’ll find this east,” he commented, waving his pointed finger around the left-hand side of the parchment. “I reckon, we go north, and scout out that fort the man told us about. The one we spotted while settling camp.”

“I agree. Why not have some more fun before sundown?” Bull mused. Tireless as he was, he backed up his vigor with action, and Olivia had to admire that.

Before she could respond, it was Solas who added some measured sense. “We should scour the area for evidence and return to camp to ensure it does not fall into the possession of someone else. You might be ready with blades and shields, but the Inquisitor and I have different necessities of rest.”

He was right. Even with her reliance on her blades as well as her magic, her bones and muscles were wearing down in the way only Mages’ bodies did. The humming and warmth that became grading and rough over time with expenditure of power. They had tonics and elixirs in their packs, but after a full day of fighting, their stores had become depleted. If they encountered another rift, or another sizeable band of enemies, that would be their hard limit.

Bull looked off to the side, off-setting his unresolved adrenaline.

“Solas is right,” Olivia agreed, scanning the windows of the Villa’s ground floor. “A rift, some red Templars on the road, and an entire Villa of Freemen is good progress for a day. Besides, I want to make sure we know as much as possible about these bastards to send back to Leliana. Something tells me the numbers that have wandered into the area aren’t all we have to worry about.”

Blackwall nodded modestly and collected his map, standing tall at her right shoulder. “Aye, Inquisitor.”

She nodded, but her attention was elsewhere. The men whose bodies littered the Villa’s courtyard were all former rank-and-file Imperial soldiers or trained thus. Olivia hadn’t much of a chance to sink her heels into the Civil War’s intricacies but cutting down enraged and feckless deserters brought the reckoning to bare for her. As they spread out into the East wing first, her boots sliding across the dirty marble floors, all that clouded her mind were thoughts of the way life had been so long ago: when the concerns of Orlesian men, Orlesian warriors, filled the halls of the only home she had ever known.

She came to a dining room with long tables end-to-end. Goods, contraband, and weaponry were amassed chaotically across fine china and décor. They must have been pillaging and extorting for months; dust had collected on some of the “useless” swords and daggers that looked more honorific than practical. Maybe they thought it would fetch a price on some underground market. She arrived at the middle of the room where disgust filled her senses. This was not the revolution of good men, but the survival of cowards. Or was that just her inner patriot diagnosing the deeds for her?

“It’s tough to see,” Blackwall’s voice carried from the entrance behind her. She turned to see him leaning against the frame, hands on his sword hilt. He looked pensive, like he had seen it all coming but was still disappointed.

“Indeed,” she admitted, and her eyes caught on the paintings hung on the wall. Frowning women, adorned with jewels and fine gowns, with various garden scenes. Muses of men’s desire to be one with nature intimately, and to commodify it as luxury.

“There was not always such a strong trend of desertion in the army’s numbers. Most simply asked to be discharged or lived out their service until a respectable retiring age. If they got to live that long.”

 _I know that._ She dragged her feet, coming around to face him head on. Intriguing realm of knowledge for a Grey Warden. “My Father said it was bad business being an Imperial soldier under Empress Celene,” she said in a mocking grandiosity. “He used to joke that he would make better pay and adventure being a shoe cobbler than an Officer.”

Blackwall grinned, his beard and forehead glistening with sweat. “Your Father had a high expectation for action, then.”

“He did,” she chuckled, taking one last look at all the goods now belonging to no one. Well, not no one. Evidently that was now her call to make. “For a nobleman, that is.”

“Noblemen who managed not to embarrass themselves as warriors were a rare breed,” he said, stepping away from the frame. “Many did not choose their careers on their own accord.”

“No, they didn’t. But he had…well, he wasn’t cut from the same cloth as his counterparts. At least…” her throat hardened, and her eyes wandered to the fireplace mantle. A similar design to the one her Father had in his study: white, sculpted, and tiled. Orlesians and their decorations were all the same. Well, except for him. And, perhaps by relation, her.

_Berenice! Do not lay so close to the fire, your hair will catch an ember! And then what would your Mother say of me letting you into my offices? Hah! Look at you, little Mademoiselle. Covered in soot. I should have you tossed in the fountain!_

“I…forgive me, Inquisitor. I did not mean to bring up a troublesome time for you.”

He kept his distance like he was intimidated by her for some reason or another. She had stared into the fireless hearth and turned to stone, so still and unanimated. No wonder he looked like he was witnessing a Spirit. His was not the same posture as that of the man who made her run through the thigh-level snow in Haven’s valley. A Warden so easily endeared was a rare and unpredictable experience. She pursed her lips and watched him but did not linger. There was no reason to appear hurt or inconvenienced if he was already apologizing.

“It is no worry, Blackwall,” she smiled, waving her hand loosely. She walked toward him and glanced back down the way, beyond his shoulder. “We should find what all needs to be collected and leave anyway. I am but wasting time on a woman’s sentimentalities.”

She moved past him with calm consideration, leaving the room behind. Following her, he uttered one last comment on the subject.

“I understand the dangers of that habit, Inquisitor. Believe me.” The pain in his voice, like she had heard hints of it before, saturated itself in the back of her mind. Fortunately for him, it had become too late in the day for her to go searching for truths she did not yet understand the brevity of.

\--

Camp was a welcomed substitute for a place to call home as anything she had known. In the Emerald Graves – the land of ruins and the tragic beauty of life built on loss – it meant looking over your shoulder at night and wondering when the foreboding peace would betray your senses.

Well, that, and Bull’s fireside storytelling.

“Bull, you are so full of it!” She accused, huddled on her ass by the bench where Krem was sitting with bottle in hand and piece of meat in the other. People orbited around them as they entered the third hour of crass conversation, sometimes stopping to get warm by the pit or have a chuckle. No one was unwelcome to do so, and Olivia made sure of it.

Krem laughed softly, taking another bite out of his ration. “You say that every time we’re at camp.”

“Yes, but I mean it this time!”

“Right…”

Across the firepit, Bull was taking a chunk out of a leg of some animal cooked and braised with the best an Inquisition camp’s materials had to offer. Which, humbly, wasn’t much besides the juices that formed at the bottom of the pot and local plants deemed edible. “Agh, give me the credit, Inquisitor,” he teased with a full mouth, “I’m the only one who has the good stuff. The stuff you walk away from that table of yours to listen to. Admit it, you got a thing for Mercenaries.”

She makes a face and hooks her elbows on the bench seat at her back. “Only those with eye patches.”

“Hah!” he says in triumph. “See there, Krem?”

“That I do, Chief. Regrettably,” he side-eyed Olivia before taking another gulp of his wine. Although Olivia had gotten along splendidly with all the Bull’s Chargers since they were brought on board, she had a particular fondness for Krem. It was easy: he was kind, practical, cut-to-the-chase, and made for good drinking company. Maker, they all did. But he did his best to laugh at her jokes, and Olivia was nothing if not strung on her own ego when it came to new friends. It became apparent rather quickly that Krem had a lot of practice in humoring sore jokes due to his boss.

Bull had a point, though. He did distract the Inquisitor, and rather effortlessly. That was a potent reminder that she had work to do before turning in. She stretched out her legs, feeling the bandages compressing against wounds on various spots. “I really should get some things done before turning in. Krem, may I have a sip of your wine?”

“Sure thing,” he hands it off to her, freeing up a hand to pull apart more shreds of juicy dark meat off the bone. “Be careful, it hits your nose real—”

“Blugh!” she pulls the bottle rim away and shakes her head sporadically, face scrunched up like a raisin. “Maker, what is this?!”

Krem snorts, his shoulders going up and down. “It’s wine, Your Worship.”

“Wine? You sure you don’t clean your armor with this shit?” she wiped her bottom lip with her wrist before stamping the bottle into the dirt by Krem’s boot. “You should tell me if you’re being forced to drink bad wine. I’d bring some of my own along to share.”

The Tevinter was flattered but content, tipping his head back as he dropped some more morsels into his mouth. He chewed on one side, managing a crooked smile. “I like my wine strong.”

Strong? Strong was one thing. A slap in the face from the inside out was another. She let out a disgusted noise and wrapped her interlocking fingers around her knee. The fire is burning tall despite it being lit for a long while. The firewood from the Dales seemed to burn economically well. Though it doesn’t compare to the sensation in the back of her throat that overstays its welcome after just one swallow.

“You know, that is a thing they say about Orlesians,” Krem muses, tossing the bone into the flames. “Their wine is watered down. Much like their promises.”

She raises her brow and looks at him. “Oh?”

“Hey, you won’t catch me recommending Tevinter’s tastes instead. Just making conversation, Your Worship.” He grins, knowing she would never accost or take offense to such comments. It wasn’t in her and hadn’t been for years – calling a spade a spade was just that. Especially if they came from someone who was otherwise sincere and harmless.

“It was a token of busy-body gossip in Orlais to suggest another person watered down their wine. A sort of turn-of-phrase insult. If you were at a Soiree, and you wished to drop a hint as to your displeasure for someone, you would smugly suggest the wine they served was too easy on the tongue: trop peu de piqûre pour s'appeler une abeille.” Too little sting for a bee. Her mother tongue rolls off with ease as she explains, and Krem cocks a brow at her thoroughness.

“Boss, you’re the only Orlesian I’ve met who doesn’t speak the language like they have too much latrine mud up their nose,” Bull observed, having calmed down into his kicking-back attitude.

“That is not a good thing,” she smirked, running her fingers back through her ponytail. “It is supposed to be like that. I am out of practice.”

“Psh,” Krem snorted, anchoring his elbows on his knees. “Sometimes that’s for the better.”

“You’re right,” she hummed with a little more soreness, “but, maybe it explains why I’m a brat for decent wine.”

They burst into a laugh, heartwarming and low. At ease despite their surroundings and day jobs. It hadn't gotten old for her yet, to make her people laugh. She wished she could do it at every minute of every day, to make up for inviting them along on torrid missions to save the world. Every time she accomplished it, she wished it wouldn’t be the last. Having achieved her delight in simple comedy, she began her exit.

“Alright, well, on that eclectic note, I must return to that work you say I neglect,” she played, standing up and dusting off her butt and thighs. Cracks sounded off from her hips – aging in war years meant all bets were off.

“What, so soon? You haven’t even started singing,” Krem joked, to which she quickly kicked him in the shoe.

“I don’t sing on demand for just anyone or anything. Goodnight, both of you. Try not to scare all the Rams this side of the glen. Our scouts have to hunt them in the morning.”

Bull choked back a laugh, apparently trying his best to follow orders. With a wave and nod to both, Olivia withdrew to the end of camp where her tent stood tall. It was larger and single-occupancy, the first time in a long while. Without Cassandra, Sera, or even Vivienne to bunk with as her regular cohabitators, she had taken more than her fair share of night watches to avoid sleeping alone. When she did relent, it was to work from the comfort of a cot instead of on her feet.

However, Blackwall had taken the shift that night, and Solas was keeping to himself. Something he had been doing since they landed there. Sooner or later she would endeavor to know why, but her sensitivity to it being the Emerald Graves syphoned all her courage to do so. Whether that was the more stereotyping and unhelpful choice, she couldn’t know for sure. Solas was always so unpredictable in his sensitivities to what remained of the people who he was just as apt to rebuke as he was to testify on their behalf.

But was she any better for the ways in which she regarded the origins of the blood in her veins?

If being there had proved anything, it was that she was lost in that subject area. She had easily grown tired of being asked and prodded about what it felt like to be surrounded by Orlesian buildings, remnants of a violence-via-settlement regime her countrymen capitalized on. If people did not fear the Mage side of her, they did the Orlesian one.

 _"How does it feel, Boss? You holding up alright?"_ Bull, to his credit, showed care in his interest.

 _"Bet it feels a little too close to home being here, huh, Inquisitor?"_ Scout Harding, with a chuckle on her lips. Olivia couldn’t blame her either.

 _"My thoughts, Inquisitor? I might as well inquire as to yours, given it is the graves of many that your nation sleeps soundly. Such is the fallacy of domesticity of Empire, as it were."_ Solas, replying with no mercy to her simply asking what he thought of being there.

Wandering into her tent, she let the drape fall behind her and snapped her fingers towards the table with candles. The quicks lit up with little wait, and she made her way to the mounted cot and sat down. On the table were piles of work to be written and signed off, a field journal she always forgot, and books to study and reference for what she encountered in the field. So much to know, and so much out there ready to prove the depth of her ignorance. She held onto the edge of the thin cot cushion as her chest deflated. She looked to the pillow and bit down on her cheek. Leaning over, her hand slid under it, uncovering the one thing she had that was specifically for herself in the margins of her lauded existence. The book. The book that had been in Cassandra’s hands for months, perhaps even years before it was ever given to her. A relic of a life and of a version of her that she would never get to see.

Splitting it open onto the page she had left off on – the page number she would meditate in her head as they hiked every which place in the Graves – she laid back on her side and curled her feet up.

Page 43. _43, 43, 43._

Where thine fingers whither down to sinew,

I shall ponder the way they nourish me until I bloom.

If all there is to embrace of you burns anew,

I doth bed myself a pyre to sleep in a windowless room.

 

Where thy lip bleed itself dry on this morrow,

I find an afterlife in the valleys of your lonesome teeth.

In their sharpness I knew a lover’s sorrow,

And in their feasting I learned of a soul-starved need.

 

In your sacred ascension the flames go dark,

And I doth wander the catacombs of your temple core.

A prayer for each altar that guards your heart

Wordless hymns between knees for which I cry for more.

  
Olivia had bitten down on her finger so hard the marks stuck after she released. Cassandra was good on her word, almost too good. It wasn’t that the poetry was all awe-striking, or that it captured her imagination on its own merit. It was the fact that, after more than a month, it was the one practice that kept her voice fresh in her memory. If she could think of how it would sound coming from her, it was like being with her. She could peek over across the tent and see her cot there, and her body stretched out under her blanket as she held her book selection above her head, brow low, mouth straight, but otherwise contented. That was how it was the first couple of weeks. After that, the conjuring became more desperate in its need of gratification. At first, she was guilty for what she thought was treating Cassandra's sacred gift like a haughty, pornographic pamphlet to use. But, when you spent day after day with a target on your back and everyone looking to you as if you had trained your whole life for a position only one other person had ever held, you quickly learned to suppress.  


It was only ever to help the hunger she had for her. She, who in one night had redefined everything she ever believed about her capacity for desiring someone else. One night? No. Months if she were to be candid. 

She kept reading, swearing she could stop after just one more page. But when her hand would sneak its way through her vest, her tunic underlayer, and detangle the front knot to her breeches, one page became several, and several became none rather abruptly. She wanted her hands on her. She wanted her hands on her the way they held the book: careful, thoughtful, but possessive. She wanted to spread herself the way page 43 did under her touch. She wanted her to take off her armor the same way she helped her put it on that one time near the Approach: with pulling force, understated strength, and little respect for her ability to breathe. Distance had built their clumsy and under-prepared love into a faith all its own: something she had never known but nevertheless craved without evidence.

Ministrations quickened. Unimpressed breathing snagged and ran out. Shoulders rolled back flatly onto too-thin sheets. Eyes closed. Knees and thighs rose up and apart. Toes curling against the stiffness of her boots. The release she was too scared to ask for, too intimidated to expect that one night they had. The candles went out. A bad habit of energy that made her suppressed noise feel all-the-more vulnerable. Her moaning died with the light.

She remained there for a moment, eyes reopened and hand gripping the blanket. It wasn’t enough anymore. It wasn’t enough without her – Maker, without just the presence of her. A woman was in trouble when her full gratification paled in comparison to the mere existence of the person she wanted. An endless night of climax and exhaustion felt like piecemeal to the simple act of Cassandra pulling down her night dress sleeves, her nails unintentionally grading against her flesh, sending shivers up her spine. 

Everyone cared about what it felt like to be an Orlesian daughter back amongst the roofs and halls of her culture. No one cared about what it felt like to be so far away from the one person who had gotten under her skin. Then again, no one knew. Or, they did, and were good at concealing it.

Once her pulse calmed and her mind was no longer captivated by the flux of euphoria, she looked to the right and saw her quill and ink jar. I need to send at least one. Just one. I promised. But then again, it had been a month. Cassandra’s mission was only supposed to take no more than six weeks, half of which she would be transient. She must have been on her way back to the fortress by then. That is, if no interruptions or mishaps kept her in the Hinterlands longer than expected. Given the Inquisition’s knack for getting into unforeseen sticky situations, that would hardly be a shock.

The last word she had gotten about the Hinterlands was a few lines written at the bottom of Leliana’s most recent report. They had landed safely on the outskirts, but snow had delayed their journey out of the Frostback region. Maybe there was a chance she could catch her with a letter, if being in the dead of winter was holding them back.

_She must be so mad. She is waiting. She has been waiting. I promised._

She pulled herself out of horizontal dread, to her feet, and onto the stool. Rolling her lips as she pulled out a clean page, she uncorked her ink jar and dabbed her quill three times. Then, she froze, her mind overwhelmed with all the thoughts and details she could stand to disclose. Why was it so hard? It wasn’t like her and Cassandra never shared a conversation. Goodness sakes, they were side-by-side for most everything. She was pretty sure she saw her naked on several occasions, before she ever desired to for sensual reasons. Why was this stumping her?

The first letter she had ever received from Cassandra was a field report. Handwritten by her, but dry and painstaking in its objective detail. No fuss, no fluff, no cheerful greeting. A warrior’s point of view if she ever knew one. It was forgettable and at the same time intimidating for someone whose ears rung with agonizing discomfort at being called “The Herald.”

She forced herself to begin. Her first line: ‘Dearest Cassandra.’ But, then, shit. That was so personal. If someone read it – and, well, the question is not if but how many – it would be a tell-all. Messages from abroad were surveilled differently than inter-fortress notes. She had always written using her title, and when they became friendlier, her first name. Adding ‘dearest’? Too much.

Sighing, she crumpled up the page and tossed it to the side, opting for a new one. This time she struck the right tone with ‘Seeker Cassandra.’ To the point, but meaningful.

Then, that left the content of the letter. What was there to say? Everything: The Graves are a sight to behold, sorry I couldn’t bring you because my ego ruins everything. The trees are so tall, and everything is so green, except when everything is red and grotesque. I know you are probably overworking yourself and have little means of entertainment, so here is an old joke from the Circle: what is the difference between a Wraith entity and the Chantry? Transparency. Get it? Because…you see…

Shit. Sod it all. This woman had seen her stark naked, but for some reason, everything was coming up dry with ways to not be a complete ass. The Dales had left her overwrought beyond what her silliness could soften. But she didn’t want to simply send a letter full of complaints, lamentations, and new scars. Cassandra deserved more than that.

Olivia sat up and tossed the feather onto the table in defeat. If she had less respect for Cassandra’s belongings, she would rip a page from the poetry book and send that. It had all the artistic synthesis she lacked in her thoughts. Alas, she had sworn she would try to appeal to that woman’s romantic sensibilities. Easier said than done. Her fingers went to the skin between her collarbones searching for the item that they could press and play with in times of anxiety. But, once again, they found nothing strung around her neck. Weeks, and she still habitually clung to a necklace she had given as a token of her affection. For all she knew, and all she hoped, it was around the neck of the woman she cared for, safeguarded properly. While she did not regret the decision to give it to her, it was proving difficult to let go of a piece of metal that had been there all along. It was proving hard to let go, period: of her opinions, her rules, her years-old but self-imposed limitations.

But the world was going to take so much from her. It had taken so much from her. She couldn’t depend on a future where she would have anything left to give. While she could do it, she would – and for the one person who exemplified endless and selfless sacrifice.

Shit. She could believe that, and yet not write her one damn letter.

Groaning with abandon, she slumped forward and planted her forehead on the edge of the desk. The candles flickered low, and outside the merriment of supper had quieted down. So much is spinning, and yet, she finds the acuity for one solid string of thought --

_Cassandra, wherever you are, I hope you can forgive me. I’m a foolish woman and I ask for so little: only that I hope you are alive, and will stay that way, so that I have a motivation for improving my talent in love letters._

It was the closest thing she did to praying on her own accord.


	71. Close Cut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More days past out in the Dales, as the Inquisitor and her allies focus on obtaining evidence of red lyrium in transit through the Graves region, procured and policed by red Templar forces on Samson's behalf. Just as she believes the bulk of conflict to be done, a last-minute mishap causes Olivia to come face to face with underlying insecurities.

From Skyhold Mage Tower, to the Inquisitor on Assignment in the Dales –

7th Pluitanis, 9:42 Dragon

Inquisitor,

Happy belated Wintersend! You are missed here at Skyhold. I hope you rest well and often, knowing that your Fortress and friends are well. Roslyn is continuing to excel in training, and the Commander has even promoted her. She’s still a rank-and-file soldier, but now she gets to make orders in case the several ranking people above her are all somehow ill or gone. She is very proud of that fact. Veronica is also doing well, and Sister Nightingale has begun giving her brief assignments and showing stewardship.

They have both told me to send their warm sentiments to you. Veronica especially. I admit, having Theia be abroad has helped her come out of her shell. She spends more time in the Tower and has even been practicing magic with the other combat Mages and Roslyn. I heard her laughing whilst sober the other day, with people I did not recognize. It is good to see, though we do miss Theia.

Speaking of. She has written to me, but nothing detailed. Just a confirmation that she is alive, and at work. I will be one of the first to know should her investigation yield any results, thanks to your generous parting gift of a promotion to Advising Enchanter of the Inquisition. You honor me, and I cannot believe you did not provide me the chance to thank you in person.

My work with Madame de Fer has continued with humble progress. I hope to have better news when you return to us. You will return to us, I know it. I know you are busy, but if you find yourself bored and with two empty and working hands, feel free to send along a note to me. We are all eager to know how you are faring out there.

Take care and please be safe. I regret that I cannot be there to ensure you are patched up myself. Inform whoever manages your healing needs who they will have to answer to should they enact malpractice.

Your Friend,

Enchanter Naomi, Advisor to the Inquisition

P.S. My goodness, that still feels odd to write. I will get used to it and stop gawking like a fool, you have my word.  


Not addressed or formally marked, but sent with expressed importance to the Inquisitor as well –

  
Liv, write more often, dammit. I’ve sent a jar of beetles, since we are all out of bees. They probably won’t let the beetles through, but just know it was coming, too.

Sera

PS – Write. I mean it. Whiddle says hi and hopes you’re stickin it with the staff you put together. Get it? Stickin it?  


\--

When Olivia arose on the 14th day of Pluitanis, she was surprised to see several personal letters posted to her outdoor work desk at camp. She had to laugh. Sera was never very good at having attachments to people, much less conveying those attachments. The field wasn’t as exciting without her there to hang from trees and cover Olivia when she needed it. And Naomi’s letter – now that was a blessing to receive, even if it took a while to arrive. Wintersend had in fact come and gone, but Spring had come to stay for a while.

Among all the pages, it was one which she received from the desk of Ambassador Montilyet that stuck. The Winter Palace, Halamshiral, was an iconic bastion of her childhood. She had only seen it once, during some grand celebration where all of Orlesian nobility had been invited. She was no older than six or seven years of age at the time. Her Mother fretted and quarreled for weeks in preparation. Minor nobility waited years for such an opportunity to run satin-gloved elbows with the highest echelon. Olivia only wanted to hide behind skirts and eat pastries.

Some things never changed.

Fortunately – if that was the word for it – combat was good for tuning those worries out. And the 14th day of Pluitanis had a full docket of it: they’d finally hammer down the last traces of red lyrium trade going on in the Graves and report it back to the Commander so that they may continue to pursue Samson, the General of Corypheus’s forces. Nailing him down had proven a more winding path than originally estimated, considering the unique dilemma of his weaponry.

In the thick of fighting, though, Olivia could taste how close they were to accomplishing the mission.

The had found them just beyond the river trying to fix a broken wagon wheel. Several red Templars pissed off already, and rabidly ready for a fight. But wagons meant materials, and materials meant letters and communications. They would fall, so help her.

While Blackwall and Bull took on the brunt of the frontal fighting, she and Solas split up and flanked. Solas cast energy barrier after energy barrier while she lit up the makeshift battlefield, and when she attacked with fire he followed up with ice, or vice versa. When one of those heinous creatures with red lyrium blades for arms took her on, she sent her dagger flying split into its chest and cast a fire glyph while it squirmed with distraction. Her ears flooded with grunting and roaring, metal clashing, and foliage crackling under shoes. She slammed the ground with her staff blade and struck another oncoming enemy, stunning him. Him? It? It tragically no longer mattered. It was more monster than anything, apparently deformed into grey skin and red bumps of seething lyrium crystals.

“Inquisitor!” Solas called out from down the embankment. She turned, taking a breath, and came when called. He was standing in the creek, blocking a swing of a sword with his staff held like a spear horizontally above his head. She could feel his barrier magic dancing in her skin – that must have been why he needed to block so bluntly.

She sprinted, falling to her knee and sliding down the green and muddy hillside into the water that went up to her waist. She pulled the blade end of her staff and aimed for the opening under his helmet for this throat. With a guttural roar she plunged it into him, casting a fire spell that shot itself directly from her heads down her staff grip. Corrupted, thin blood went gushing. Some of it landed on her hands and cheek as she looked away. It stung, but unlike anything she had ever felt, not heat stinging, not acidic.

When he fell back, she went down and saw the most immediate relief to her risk, plunging herself into the water, falling face down on purpose though it looked like a hapless slip. When underwater, the yelling from the surface was drowned out by the low rumbling of the weak current. She closed her eyes and held her breath, shaking her head as much as she could. Then, a hand – a rather large one – grabbed onto her shoulder plate and pulled her back up for air.

“Boss!” Bull chided, tossing her onto the ground. Blackwall came jogging down, also alarmed.

Olivia fell onto her side and coughed forcefully. The stinging was gone– at least, from what she could tell, gasping for air and feeling the cold air brace against her face and neck.

“Inquisitor, are you injured?” Blackwall’s deep voice as he crouched beside her.

“I’m—gah! I’m fine!” she gasped, rolling onto her back flat. “I…I...”

“Red Templar blood. She did it to ensure it would not infect her by direct contact.” Solas, calm as the day she met him, despite his ass just being helped out of the pit of battle by her gamble. Though there was a subtle breathlessness. She couldn’t be too bothered as her eyes locked on the tree canopies above them, her breath incrementally steadying. She must have looked like a cat having fallen into a well – they all stared at her that way.

“I…what…” she managed between inhales, “get…the materials…”

Blackwall rose and did as she attempted to ask, as Bull and Solas stepped out of the creek and to her side.

“Inquisitor, are you sure you are uninjured?” Solas asked, showing unexpected concern.

“I’m fine,” she exhaled, rubbing her head. The braids in her hair had come loose during her thrashing. “I’m just…lightheaded.”

“Maybe we should get back to camp, just to make sure you didn’t bang up against something.”

“I didn’t. I just…gugh” she wanted to curse, “help me up, please.”

Surprising her one more time, it was Solas who offered a hand. Pulling her up with relative ease, he stood by and allowed for her to get her bearings. Being tossed around like a doll while wearing heavy Mage armor wasn’t the most fun, though she would wager it would be a brilliant way of sobering up on the fly. She turned back toward the road and took a last, deep breath to regulate.

“Alright. It’s done. The last sighted transport wagon in the region. Cross it off the list!” she said, exasperated.

Solas began to walk up the hill, as did Bull. “Indeed,” the Apostate agreed, “it will be one more loose end tied for our work here.”

Just as it all seemed a done deal, though, Olivia’s stomach dropped. Something was off, and it wasn’t just the creek mud she got in her ears. The sensation of being watched, stalked, almost. She hung back and evaluated the surrounding nature: the several trees, the incline in the trail, and then…the hedges on the corner at the top of the hill. A discoloration in the green and brown hues of the branches. A hood wrapped around someone’s head, and an archer’s bow, posed at the ready. Not aiming for her though – something closer. Someone.

 _Blackwall_. Blackwall, searching the wagon crates, his back to the perpetrator. A clean, point-blank shot.

Olivia dropped her weight and went for it, shoving Solas out of the way as he carried both their staffs, and not bothering to arm herself with one. Past Bull, weaving with her petite body around him and directly for the dirt road where her Warden ally had gone by her command. Her eyes on the enemy with precision even in her dead-sprint. Even with her immediate response, the figure wasn’t falling back. Instead, the arrow straightened. It was going to be a last-ditch effort. 

Just as she got within a couple yards of him, she threw her arms forward. “Down!”

He looked up, but it was too late. Everything felt too late to save, except by virtue of her brute force. She slammed into him with all her weight, hoping with her armor it’d be enough to push a couple feet out of the way. That was all she would need. He fell back but took hold of her chest armor plate. Hair strands went flying into the breeze of copper and golden blonde.

A whistling sound. Faraway at first, but up close in the span of a millisecond. Then, the sound of slicing, loud and against her ear. Pain. Sharp and sudden. Stinging, the kind she was familiar with this time. Her left ear started ringing at an unbearable pitch. The momentum of the arrow as it skinned the side of her head pushed her back just enough to fall against the wagon bed. The ringing: the forsaken, horrible ringing. The tree canopy again. Then, yelling. Blackwall didn’t dare let go of her.

The stranger had taken his last, and most foolish risk for glory.

\--

Walking back to camp was a blur, but she had stayed conscious and standing for it, even with a cowl hood compressed against her head that had become soaked with crimson. Everyone had gone hush for the second half of the hike, after having asked and debriefed on the skirmish as much as they could stomach. Blackwall was especially penitent, even when the incident was no fault of his own. He would not broach eye contact. He wouldn’t speak. He just walked, on guard and several yards ahead of them to ensure the forward march went uninterrupted.

The lead healer at camp looked at her like she was a puppy brought in with a broken leg, even as her face was bloodstained and her temper flared. She was laid down on the stretcher and de-hooded, so that several sets of hands could investigate just what had been done to her.

Through the ringing which had only slightly dissipated, the could hear the words “stitching,” “cutting,” and “clean.” All else was lost.

“Inquisitor,” a woman came around and bent onto her knees beside her. She took hold of her hand, even. “We think it best if you be sedated into light sleep, so that your cut can be cleaned and stitched properly. Would you agree to that?” Olivia’s eyes drifted open and closed. She was tired of bleeding, of making a mess. She couldn’t put her hands on anything without it soaking into her gloves or being smeared. Whatever it took, she wanted it to be taken care of.

One nod, and she had given her order. What followed was a sip from a bottle rim, and a blanket sprawled over her body. Some more discussion around her and above her head, concerning shock, blood loss, and the word “cutting” again. 

_Ugh, done, please. Just be done._

Sleep came soon after that. Thank goodness.

\--

She woke up hours later, when dusk was taking hold of the land. Fire crackled somewhere near. Of all the times she had been put into a sleeping state for the sake of injury operation, this round was the most immediately sobering. The fresh air in her lungs helped.

Her head had been kept tilted left-side up, so when her eyes opened it was to the right-hand tent wall. A table with instruments, cleaned and laid out on linens. A large bowl of probably water. Then, a chair, where an armored person sat with their ankle across their knee. Her memories of Haven’s aftermath and having a bedside warrior there to keep her reluctant company flickered in and out of her tired mind.

“Krem,” she coughed up, the side of her mouth upturning.

He looked up from his lap, where he had been carving the skin off an apple of all things. A shiny red one. Sadness sunk into her chest.

“Your Worship,” he looked up, unsettled. “They said you’d come out of it quick. The Chief went out to make sure you got everything from the wagon you took down. Dalish went, too.”

She cleared her throat, sliding her hands further down her waist that was missing the heavy armor. “Good. Ugh, blast it, my head…” she grimaced as dull pain emanated from her scalp, down into her nose.

“It looks meaner than it feels,” he commented honestly, “but, they did a clean job of the shave.”

Oh, that was a relief at least. Wait…shave. Shave? _Shave?!_

Her eyes enlarged as she reached up to feel. It was a completely unfamiliar texture – short, velveteen almost. Not the slippery, oiled side of her long, blonde hair she had known. A ridge bump going along the side, from above her ear towards the back of her scalp. Knots of suture twine. Her chest started to heave up and down as panic set in, her eyes watering with visceral distress.

“T-they shaved me?”

Krem stopped carving, leaning forward and letting his leg fall. “They had to, Inquisitor. The slice was clean, but not clean enough. Without it, they wouldn’t have been able to stop the bleeding.”

She wanted a mirror. Dammit, she needed a mirror. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen – the sweet woman who had taken her hand mentioned nothing of shaving or…or…ah, shit. Cutting. That was what they had been debating around her bleeding head. It would have hurt, the ordeal of sitting through the cutting and shaving close with a knife. She had endured stitches in the field before with nothing but cloth between her teeth; that would not have been a new experience. The sleep was for the process before that stage.

Fucking fantastic.

“Inquisitor, it’s okay. You shouldn’t have to worry too—”

“Krem, help me up.”

“…But, Your Worsh—”

“Krem, please. Please just…” she didn’t wait for him to be persuaded for her to start pushing against the cot. Clearly he hadn’t signed up for this when he sat himself down to watch a sleeping woman recover. When it was clear she wasn’t asking, but ordering, he put his snack on the table and lunged forward the several feet between them, hunched over for the sake of the tent roof. He took hold of her forearm and guided her to sit upright. Maker, did her head hurt.

“Agh,” she hissed, gripping on her own thigh. A subtle dizziness, probably more from the drugs than her injury, compelled her to stop while she was ahead.

“Inquisitor, are you sure this is smart?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I just…shit,” she closed her eyes for a moment, “I need…something…reflective. A pale of water, perhaps.”

He paused for a moment, ensuring she wouldn’t collapse like a pile of cards without his arm on her. He then went for the one thing in the vicinity that could help. The bowl on the table, still full. With one hand he grabbed it and brought it to her, setting it in her lap. She braced on the rim of it and leaned forward, waiting impatiently for the water to settle and present a clear image.

At last the damage was there for her to see. The shave was the front half of the side of her scalp, going just past her ear. Her hair was so fine and fair at that length that she looked partially bald without the shine of sunlight to cast itself on the short strands. But the worst part by far was the sutured scar; it looked like a bird talon had been branded into the side of her head and sewn up with black string. The swelling was bad, as was the lingering stains of scarlet and purple. Bruising, which meant temporary. Though, in the moment, everything felt permanent. The ugliness, the raggedness. She scowled, her anger going from zero to ten as she threw the bowl out the tent door, clear into the open grounds.

“Fuck this!” she yelled with a growl. “Fuck! Fucking…! Fuck!” she collapsed back against her cot, groaning again with the pain of doing so. Krem was a hundred miles away in both felt distance and consequence as he stood by, wordless.

Outside voices began to encroach, most likely in response to the bowl flying out and breaking by the sounds of it. That was useless and unimportant. What mattered was that she had one more stupid and irrevocable impression on her body scarring her for life.

“Uh…Inquisitor…” Krem, steady but cautious.

She pressed the back of her hands atop her eyes to quell tears. “Yes, Krem." It was all she could do to not lose all her grip on reality and demean a subordinate for daring to provide comfort to her.

“Urgh, look. Chief said something about you maybe being mad about this. He said to hold tight for when he returns. I know it looks…piss poor, right now. But, trust me, he’s good to talk to about this kind of stuff.”

“And what is this kind of stuff, huh?” she rebuffed, eyes still covered.

“When the fight ends up marking you up in ways you didn’t expect. Especially when you get them saving someone else’s skin.”

She wanted to roar. Go off, start crying, throw some more fragile objects. However, Krem’s words tempered her. It wasn’t too long ago that she got to hear the story of how Bull got his eye patch. With a stiff release of air from her chest, she removed her hands from her face and peeked at the mercenary. He had politely got back to sitting, apple in hand, and knife in the other.

“…cut me off a chunk, would you please?” she asked, with nothing better to hope for but a decent apple.

Krem grinned and nodded with a tilted chin. “Sure, Inquisitor.”

\--

Bull and Dalish returned later just as night fell. They had brought back the remaining evidence needed to complete the report for Cullen, all the while healers did their best to work around Olivia’s sensitivity to her situation. She could never mistreat a healer – in all of their faces she saw Naomi, and her unapologetic dignity for her duties – but it was difficult to not take aim with her situational hostilities. Krem kept her company while she growled, rolled onto her side, even cried into her pillow. Never once asking why, or for what reason. In between pangs, he would simply hand her another slice of whatever fruit he had found.

_Bless Krem._

Underneath her pain there was the oath that talking to Bull would make things better. So, when she got word of their arrival at camp, she made it her first reason to get up out of the cot and onto her feet. Thankfully, the elfroot dosages had her in a sweet spot of dulled pain and decent motor skills.

When she arose from the tent, Bull’s tall frame was the best kind of eyesore: easily found by her weary gaze as he stood at the edge of the camp. They were northeast, perched on a steep butte where temple ruins had stood decaying amongst the woodlands. Bull was observing the valley below, standing in the middle of one of the archways still standing somehow, the stone covered in tangling vines.

Torches perched on tables and tent openings lit her way to him, her arms holding a blanket around her.

“Bull,” she greeted to his back, trying her best not to feel annoyed with the feeling of eyes on her from all sides. “You’ve returned.”

The Qunari stepped to the side facing her. He was still armored up -- he hadn’t been back long.

“Boss, you are alive. That would have been a shitty way to go, after all you have been tossed into.”

“Yes. Some of it by you, no less.” She smiled, but her tone was otherwise somber. “Did you find anything good?”

He chuckled. “You bet. It was passed on to your desk. I’m sure the Commander will damn-near smile once it makes it all back to him.”

“Well, what are we here for if not to find reasons for Cullen to relax about his job?”

They laughed faintly as she came to stand directly beside him, taking in the high-up view of the meadow down the path. A couple August rams grazed among the fireflies dwindling throughout the tall patches of grass. Somewhere, likely in trees, their Scouts were posts and watching for any disturbances along their secured perimeter. For some reason in spite of her dramatics, the inclination to call it an easy day rest on her thoughts. Well, that peace didn’t last too long.

“So, you going to show off your battle scar, or keep looking like you just got Cloistered?”

“I do not look Cloistered!” she rebuked with a crooked grin.

“Boss.”

He shot her a look. That was enough. Bull didn't have to do much to get his point across. As much as she had grown comfortable around him over time, his overbearing stature in comparison to her less-than-statuesque frame was a constant reminder to pay attention. With a sigh, she slid the blanket off her head, revealing her head of hair tossed up in a twisted bun and pinned. He reached and guided her back at her shoulder so that she would reveal her left side fully. Maker, if he wanted to, he could just pick her up like a sack of root vegetables.

“Damn, you even scrap up pretty.”

“That’s not true,” she shook free of his shoulder with as much compassion as she could muster. “I look like a seared flank of meat. I can’t believe they had to do this. Naomi wouldn’t...she...she would have…”

“She would have had to, and you would be standing her not only pissed at the world, but pissed at your friend. Is that something you really want, Inquisitor?”

No. What she wanted was a “should have, could have, would have” circumstance to escape into mentally so she would have to face what had happened for all that it was. It had been a long time since a mishap in her duties had inspired such a strong wave of self-pity; maybe it was the one-dish-too-many in the stack.

Sucking on her teeth, she looked back out at the landscape, trying to count the number of firefly dots in the air. A useless past-time to settle her thoughts. Even when she wondered how Cassandra’s eyes would look with the reflection of their illuminated, golden glow in her irises. Hazel, warm, and deep.

“...Growing up, I learned people were not opposed to scars or marks. But...it was considered formidable if you were able to conduct your machinations without obtaining them. A sign that you were clean and successful in your agenda, especially for women. When I went to the Circle, things changed. Marks and scars were unspeakable taboos, unless you wanted one of your own from the Templar who handed them down to your friend, or your peer…”

Bull listened as well as he talked story. Tall, intimidating, but conscientious. One of the few allies she had to whom she could disclose stories of her passed and not feel like it would be held against her.

“Seems to me you have a problem with not calling the shots on change.” He scuffed his boot against the rock platform under their feet, and crossed his arms. 

“What? Me? No…” she scoffed, sarcasm drenching her tongue.

“Ha, Boss,” he replied, “it’s always the puny ones who get sick of the eyes and ears above their heads first.”

“If I might ask, how would you know?”

He grinned. No offense taken for what was an obvious confusion. “Among the Qunari, it isn’t hard to be one of the small ones. I know it sounds ironic given our size to you, but you'd be surprised at how people can take it to heart being told they don't make much of a shadow.”

Hearing a Qunari invoke respect was an intriguing thing to a Southerner, as she would be described. From what she had learned of Par Vollen -- which, honestly, had never been a lot -- respect was not given with consent, but forked over with coercion. Concepts like freedom, liberty, choice: these were not measured ingredients to their culture from the point-of-view of outsiders. Olivia had at one point in her life felt nothing but contempt for it, but being around Bull paired with seeing the world for what it was had eroded her prejudices down so far.

“I suppose I am more attached to parts of myself than I knew.”

“And that is where you will get hooked if you don’t learn to value your ability to live over what you look like while doing it. Trust me, I got firsthand knowledge.” Making his comment a pun, he held up his open hand, showing off the several fingers cut shorter than the others. His fighting gloves had been tailored to fit, likely custom work on Dagna and Harritt’s part. He was wise and kind to talk to her like. Wiser than she would ever know. But it still hurt.

She glanced and smiled softly, rubbing her blanketed shoulder. The night chill touched on the shaved side of her head, a bizarre and new phenomenon. It wasn’t nice.

“It really was just a matter of time,” she concluded.

“You could make that the motto of this entire operation. None of that ‘darkness, we go’ shit.” We work too much in broad daylight for that, if you ask me.” he chortled at that, hands going to his hips.

She snickered and tucked her chin against the wool. “Is it odd that I wish Cole were here?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Agh!” she shot him a look, holding in laughter. “I mean it! He would have something funny to say. Like, ‘you cannot braid your scalp, and that makes you angry. But the healers did it with string, maybe it is possible.’’

Bull let out another chuckle, tossing his head up and down. “I’m sure if you cast something enough, he’d blow a cloud of smoke and show up hanging from the war banner. I’d rather you not, Boss. I don’t much care for a concert of my tent thoughts while I’m polishing my Great Axe by the fire.”

“Fair enough.”

She did not just miss Cole. She missed everyone. She missed Naomi, who would undoubtedly talk up and down about how she could still braid and pull back her hair as she used to, even if she had to figure it out for her. Sera, who would have probably poked her scar and told her she looked mad scary. Shit, even Dorian, who would likely guffaw and claim the made-up trophy of prettiest Inquisition member.

Who was she kidding. He had believed that to be his the day he showed up. Dammit, how she missed them. And one most of all.

“I’m going to go to my tent for a while. I will be back out for supper.”

“Take care, Boss. Remember what I said.”

“I will. Thank you, Bull. I owe you a listening ear.”

“You’re right, so don’t go losing it to a loose marksman crouched in a bush.”

She bowed her head with good humor, back-stepping towards camp. He watched her until she turned around to continue onward. To her left, people crowded around the fire, slumped and drained after another long day. But their smiles and small-talk alluded to good spirits. To her right, the outskirts of their tents, where several more persons stood and talked while their eyes were on the tree lines. Great Bears were not invited to be on the menu that night. No one was caring. No one was gawking at her. It was a mark of adversity to go along with all the rest -- one that paled in comparison to the sorts they had underneath armor and hoods. She was silly to throw a childlike tantrum earlier, just as she was silly for wasting her ally’s time in sulking.

As she passed by, she slid off her blanket and handed it to one of the Scouts sitting on a bench by the Healer’s quarters. He who had a bandaged, bloody bicep and was stifling a slight shiver by the looks of it.. He looked to her and smiled graciously, taking it and bowing his head.

“Thank you, Ser,” he muttered, to which she grinned and said not to mention it.

He went on talking with his bench companion, and she continued to the wide tent with their map table and scrolls. Now there were cross-out marks on multiple points -- confirmed locations of red Templar outposts, conquered at last. Then, Villa Maurel circled. The fort to the north of it also marked as reclaimed. The map was a eulogy to the hopes of all their enemies. They had done well.

In the morning she was set to meet up with the leader of the refugee camp to confirm security of the fort and their base camp, a final act of solidarity to seal the alliance. Fairbanks: an interesting man, one with little words except for when it was concern for the people around him. There were worse personality quirks to have, she gathered, but there was still something about him she couldn’t put her finger on. Then again, there were a lot of people she harbored suspicious afterthoughts for.

“Inquisitor! Ser!” a breathless voice approached, along with running steps.

She turned and saw her messenger Scout, one she thought had gone out no more than an hour ago, red-faced and sweaty. She had been sprinting by the looks of it.

“Yes? Is something wrong?”

“Ser, a report from Redcliffe,” she reached into her belt and pulled a folded, thick parchment. Sealed with wax that had smeared and dried.

Her expression dropped and she took it with haste.

“It was marked with urgent notice to get it to you at once, personally.”

She examined the front. Thorough, straight handwriting. No frills, no curls. It was Cassandra. She ripped it open, preparing for the worst but hoping for the best. The date was marked the 5th day of Pluitanis, eight days ago. As of then, they were still stationed there, approaching the maximum estimated time they'd have to be. That was slightly troublesome, and she hadn’t even read the first line.

She peeked up at the Scout, who watched with nervousness as she recollected her breathing.

“Get me two Ravens as soon as possible.”


	72. Idolatry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assignment in the Hinterlands packs a punch toward the end for Seeker Pentaghast, as Agent Trevelyan's investigations into the whereabouts of the missing Tranquil bear tragic fruit. The subliminal truth of her and the Inquisitor's dynamic is brought to bare in a most inconvenient and bombastic way.

From the Inquisition camp near Redcliffe to Skyhold Fortress --

4th Pluitanis, 9:42 Dragon

Leliana,

Venatori continue to be uprooted with relative efficiency, and the last several days have yielded no further sightings. For now, the region has been defended with success. The refugee settlements have grown with further support on the part of our people hunting and assisting with everyday improvements, including construction and transport.

Redcliffe has also recovered well in the time since the Mages vacated. There is hardly any trace of their having been here after less than a year. I am sure the King of Ferelden is relieved to know it the village’s upliftment.

There are worrisome hints of red lyrium transport and continued mining efforts. We will need to investigate further, as I imagine it connects to Cullen’s interests in the Dales. It reminds me of what the Inquisitor uncovered in the Western Approach: mining equipment and books on strange experimentations.

You will find attached the direct report from Agent Trevelyan regarding any information she has uncovered. All things considered, she has conducted herself with irreproachable dedication, if not overt reclusivity. It would have been helpful to have someone capable of field combat to have on hand. Though, by all means, do not start pandering to my point of view if you have gone this long without.

While I do not fully understand why you feel the need to detail the Inquisitor’s safety and whereabouts with such erroneous annotation, I will admit I hold gratitude for it. That is all. Do not run away with it. 

Maker keep you.

Seeker Pentaghast  


\--

Traveling out of the Frostbacks in winter was insufferable, but she wouldn’t waste any time showing her indignance for it. Her first ordered mission since Caer Oswin, and it was medicinal getting out and putting in work. The Inquisitor -- Olivia, as she sometimes had the courage to call her in her thoughts -- had for all intents and purposes designed the mission to set her back on track. If she had any say, she would ensure that.

Maker, had she become worried she would disappoint her? That was a foolish question. Of course she had.

The Hinterlands were frostbitten, with piles of shallow, frozen snow scattered throughout the wilderness. In the mornings she would rise just before the sun for solitary workout. Then, just as most camp personnel rose out of their tents fully armored for the initial duties of the day, she would be sifting through reports, finishing write-ups of orders for people to hand off. Being the ranking Inquisition official meant everyone looked to you, in fear of having to answer the one touched by Andraste herself. A single, individual ‘someone else’ who was rather hard to miss. Or, easy to miss. Both were juxtaposed truths.

Then, once that was settled for the first half of the day, she would set out with people to do as she was brought there to do: dismantle Venatori claims on the territory, thereby settling the land for the sake of the citizens and refugees. Some days were bloodier than others, and more painful. But that was to be expected.

They were only supposed to stay for a couple of weeks: get in, handle the mess, and get out. The Inquisitor’s friend and her quest to uncover the Tranquils’ whereabouts had impeded that. While Cassandra left at morning and came back at night having leveled entire valleys of enemies, the pale-faced Free Marcher did not conduct herself with such routine. Sometimes she did not report back until just before dawn after having left the morning prior. Others, she hulled up in their strategy tent, her shadow pacing back and forth in the candle light. There was nothing to be done with her, because she hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet.

Wintersend brought merriment to Redcliffe and the villages surrounding the port city. She had stopped in during supper time to oversee hand-off of rations and materials to see the square draped in flowers, tapestries, and petals drifting across the cobblestone in tufts. She did not come to party, nor did she have a secret desire to. Wintersend merely meant the arrival of Spring, and spring meant thawing snow, and thawing snow meant clearer roads but a chance at flooding. Hit or miss.

Standing on the steps to the port pavilion as the sun dropped onto the mountains while her men finished up a wagon load several yards behind her, she would have been perfectly fine to turn away and go. However, the corner of her eye caught on one of those hanging bundles of flowers swinging in the wind, high above people’s heads. It was full of purple, blue, and pink petals that had been breaking off, collecting on everything. Women were picking them up and putting them in their hair as they walked passed to make light of the decaying beauty.

That was precisely something Olivia would do.

A month, and not one letter. Maybe the book was too much -- maybe it wasn’t enjoyable like she wished it would be. One couldn’t transform into a romantic overnight, especially if they had reason to be the contrarian. What was known was that she was alive, making effective headway in the Dales, and in one piece. Cassandra made sure to know from Skyhold’s frequent correspondences. The middle-man, as it was, between their existences. That was fine, and practical. No one needed to see their Commanding supervisor reduced to a puddle over a simple letter. It was bad enough feeling hopeful at the end of every night, when the messenger scouts would come in with last-minute letters from the Ravens.

“Seeker,” a person approached, dressed in peasant clothes. A woman, older than she, but not much. Goodness.

“Yes?” she turned to her right side where the woman had come close. “Can I help you?”

The woman had a basket hooked on her forearm full of jars and tulip flowers. She wore a smile as she rubbed her wrist. “You and the Inquisition are always welcome here. Thank you for defending us. You have made it safe for my daughters to walk back from the fields at night.”

It must have been flushing heat from the air. It had to have been. Blush and heartbeats quelled themselves in her. She nodded her head, her hands going behind her back in an automatic response of a warrior with manners.

“It is no trouble. It is our responsibility; we are at the service of the people.”

The woman watched her far longer than a stranger should take interest. Reaching into her basket, she pulled a tulip from her belongings and held it out to her, her thin fingers wearing worn out rings.

“Happiest of Wintersends to you, Seeker. Maker preserve and bless you.”

Her lips parted, but the words took their time. She could feel her brows raise, modesty sinking into her skin. She looked back toward the wagon, where Scouts were finishing up the last of the loading, before she took the token from her. Despite her scabbing disenchantment with her Order and her loyalty to it proved misled, it was not lost on her that the woman's utterance of the word "Seeker" may have been the first happy one in recent months. There was once a time in her life when someone could yell "Seeker" out in the open, and she was not instantly sure they were asking for her attention. Where there was faith, there was also devastation.

“And may he watch over you, Ma’am. Good Wintersend to you and your family.”

“It has and will be, much to your credit.”

The woman did a humble curtsy and left, walking off towards the cottages paired together along the main road. That, that was what she had strove to do, in a heartbreaking nutshell of a moment. Good service, humble service. Something to believe in in return for helping others do the same.

She twisted around the thick stem of the red tulip, her gaze spanning out toward the village buildings. For a moment, purpose had shown itself: a stranger, and a missed presence all the same. Although, it was easy envision purpose embodied by Olivia, herself. The person who would probably be standing beside her rocking back onto her heels, smiling like a fiend at having witnessed the exchange.

 _I saw that! See, I knew this would help you,_ she would say, and giggle. Cassandra would groan, and strive to change the subject.

With her attachment to the festivities complicated, she elected to take her leave. Service or none, she was out of place: distracted, armored, and sweating. Finding her horse tied near the packed up cargo, she mounted and gathered her reins while the Scouts climbed aboard the supply wagon or began on foot Back to camp it was, before they lost all the sunlight.

\--

Dismounting at the east camp by Master Dennett’s family land, she was welcomed rather brusquely by an eager messenger jogging up the path for her.

“Seeker Pentaghast!” she called, skidding to a stop and spooking the horse Cassandra held in one rein. “Agent Trevelyan...she…”

“What?” she replied briskly, sliding off her riding gloves which would be replaced with her working ones soon after.

“She returned an hour ago. Said she wishes to speak to you at once.”

Their interactions had been brief and in the presence of others. To be fair, Cassandra didn’t have much to say to the Mage, and since she didn’t know about her and the Inquisitor, the standing was mutual. For all she knew, the need to track down Tranquil numbers resided in the Inquisitor’s loyalty to her kind, and nowhere else. Trevelyan took her orders, and turned in her reports, and that was all. She hadn’t yet requested her presence, or pursued private conversation. This night would be a change in precedent.

As she walked into the heart of camp, handing off her horse to another subordinate to take to the Master’s stables where their cavalry were being generously housed, the sinking feeling in her gut needed fending off.

She came to the headquartered tent cover where their navigational center resided, including their map, their cross-referencing materials, and so on. There, a woman stood with her back to the camp, swaying from hip to hip, arms gathered.

“Agent,” Cassandra signals to her. She immediately turns, her face looking...off. Swollen, and red around her irises as the Seeker stops at the edge of the large table.

“What is wrong?”

“I…” Trevelyan struggles, hands falling loose as she wipes her face. “Seeker Pentaghast.”

Cassandra stared.

“The...I…”

“Out with it, please.”

She clenches her jaw, and turns around to the long table behind her. Grabbing a stack of papers looking old and torn at the edges, she singles out each one and sets them down facing Cassandra’s side. One by one, until all four in total are laid out flat beside one another.

There are Tevinter insignias on one of the letterheads.

“We investigated the Redcliffe cottages and warehouses again, the ones they were said to have commandeered. At first, I found nothing. But, these were tucked in map scrolls locked away in a back room. They...they were found by a shelf with...with skulls. A mass amount of skulls.”

Cassandra glanced at her and her sunken face, before she took the first paper into her hands.

  
Alexius was quite clear in his orders. We must scour the countryside to find more of the shards. Without them, the Venatori cannot claim the treasure our master seeks. For that, we need the oculara. Without them, the shards are nearly impossible to find, even if they are no longer cloaked by whatever magic hid them for all these centuries.

There must be more Tranquil in the area — the rebels abandoned most of them when they fled their Circles. Remember, the skull will only attune properly if the Tranquil is in close proximity to one of the shards when the demon is forced to possess him. Even then, the blow must be delivered immediately. The oculara produced from Tranquil killed even minutes later failed to illuminate the shards when used.

I trust you to continue your efforts in this matter. Our master expects success.  


She should have searched harder. She should have followed her gut.

Cassandra returned the letter to the table and stood still. Maker, all those Mages. All those people. Why had there been no question as to their location on the part of the Rebel Mage leadership? Why was there no oversight? The chaos unleashed between the Templars and the Circles had allowed for far more egregious crimes to happen in the margins than any of them knew. This changed the ground rules of the Inquisitor's dedication to Mages' futures in Thedas. 

They stood in silence for a minute, while Trevelyan choked back another round of tears by the looks of her pursing lips and rounded shoulders.

“This...this is...” Cassandra said, at a loss for what could be said to resolve the circumstance. “What did you do with…”

“We collected them all. They are stowed away for transport. She will want them to be buried properly.”

‘She.’ For some reason, the use of pronouns even in their harmlessness graded on Cassandra’s nerve. ‘She’ was Inquisitor. Hers were the shoulders this realization would crash down on, when they once were hopeful. She deserved more than an off-handed and isolated ‘she.’ But that made little difference now, besides a fight unworthy of picking.

“Very well. When you are able, submit your findings and I will write to the Inquisitor personally.”

Just as she was to walk away to check on the guard post up the hill -- or something, anything, to give her reason to walk and ponder what she had just found out -- the Agent was not done.

“W-with all due respect, Seeker Pentaghast, I believe I should write to the Inquisitor about this directly. She would...I…”

Cassandra looked back and stared her down. Not meaning to be scary, but Trevelyan’s subtle flinch told of her efficacy.

“...She would want it to come from me.”

That was out of line. Friend or not, who was she to dictate that? Where had she been, while the Inquisitor was doing her work for better or for worse? What comfort had there been left to this white-haired, brooding woman, in her absence?

“Your recommendation is sincere, Agent, I can see that as much. But I will be the one to write the report.”

“Can I ask why?”

_Because I know how to tell her, and I owe it to her after all I put her through for the sake of fear of the Rite’s implications for the Order I revered._

“Because that is my order to you.” Once again she attempted to breakaway and leave, and once again she was reproached.

“But, Seeker, this is not a simple status report. It should come from one Mage to another, from...from a friend. The ramifications are--”

“The ramifications go well beyond the understanding of a Mage, Agent, and far beyond that of a subordinate in comparison to her supervising leader. You would do well not to over-extend the sensitivity of the situation as justification for your speaking out of turn.”

Trevelyan’s face hardened, the sadness vanishing behind avarice. “How dare you?”

“How dare I what, exactly?” standing tall, hands to her sides. Make my evening, Mage.

“Seeker Pentaghast, before the Inquisitor was such she was my best friend. She is not just an authority without feeling, without need of compassion. The news should come from someone she knows will understand the brevity. Not someone who...who…”

“Who what?” she grit against her teeth, voice lower than the dirt under her boot heels. There was hesitance in the Agent’s face. Hesitance then engulfed in grief’s boldness.

“Not someone who has been complicit in the events which have led us here, by allegiance to institutions that have exacerbated them.”

In her eyes and disobedience, Cassandra recognized Olivia -- at least, who she was when they began their travels in what felt like another lifetime. The bitter, underlying rage, the chip on her shoulder, the venom in her words. It filled her with resentment.

“You have overstepped your bounds, Agent,” she growled. “It is not you who dictates the protocol. I suggest wherever it is your attentions are needed, you withdraw to immediately.”

“But this is--”

“Does it look like I misunderstand my use of the term ‘immediately,’ or would you prefer a more direct demonstration?”

“...You…”

Cassandra glared with the invoked force of a what could be a punch in the face via eye contact. The Mage lost enough audacity to step back. She looked like the kind of person to overestimate her own abilities. Yet, she backed down, and walked off towards the upper side of camp. Hopefully to take a guard shift, or writing that report she was demanded of. One could hope.

The nerve. Sweet Maker, the nerve. She should have taken field notes for her future self when she was dealing with flack from the Inquisitor’s mouth. When to cut them off, when to not ask for clarification, when to walk away. Thanks to her amnesia, she was having to juggle her animosity for a woman she barely knew, and her lamentation on her findings. Lamentations no one would believe she’d have, but she did. She did mourn. She did regret.

Coming around to the side of the table where Trevelyan had stood her ground like a fool, she leaned onto the tabletop with her arms and hung her head. It would have been a great time for Olivia to appear. She would know what to do. Her voice, as spirited and provocative as it always was, had become the one inside her head; distance and lack of letters only nourished its volume.

What could she say to an Agent, implicated by her past friendship with their leader, that would carry the same catharsis as ‘No, she would want to hear it from me, because it is me she waits to hear from for reasons that belong to her and me only’? Nothing. Nothing that wouldn’t skin her vulnerabilities alive in the process.

Cassandra Pentaghast was no stranger to pulling rank. But this, this was a whole new genre of it. And so dramatic and besides the point of her being there. Ugh, if only Leliana had not found the time to be herself. If only the Inquisitor was not to committed to defending as many people she cared for from each other as she did. If only she had not given her this mission to find herself and her center again. If only...

If only she had come with her instead.

Guards needed to be checked. Reports needed to be turned in. Ravens needed to be tracked. Work awaited her.

\--

A couple hours later she retired to her tent for the evening. A spacious build for her tastes, but maybe that was the feeling of being without someone there to run in, tell an immature joke, and then run back out. Or someone to bunk with who snored when she did manage to sleep, but only after she listened to her read from her Chapter. No one was going to stop in except Scouts, and no one would know to ask for a recitation from the Seeker of all people.

That left her to her own devices and pleasures. Stripping out of her armor and slipping on a long-sleeved coat over her linen shirt, she took to her routine: first armor was to be cleaned inside out. That would preoccupy her for an hour or so. Then, she could move onto her sword and shield, which would be another hour. Then, hopefully, a few pages.

She held her breastplate with one strongarm and the cloth with the other, palm and fingers spread while she buffed in circles. No major guts that day -- just dust and grime from the trail. Those kinds of clean-ups were the exception rather than the rule.

The procedure was a meditation. A way to busy her hands while her thoughts went elsewhere for refuge: prayer, logistics, remembering her technique in workouts. Over time, her less pragmatic interests would center themselves. Old poetry lines she could still recall even being miles away from her books. Artful recitations. Then, maybe even daydreams, as rare and elusive as they were. They took up less space as days wore on -- missing her had gained ground in her heart.

If only such peace could come without interruption.

“Seeker?” someone called from the outside of the closed tent drape.

She stopped and looked, seeing the faint shadow cast through due to the moonlight. “Name yourself, Agent.”

“It’s Agent Trevelyan.”

Oh, great. Back to be more unruly and intemperate, clearly not satisfied with the consequences? Maker, did Ostwick’s curricular tradition exalt stubborn argument as some source of power?

“Enter.” An allowance she regretted as she said it.

The Mage entered unceremoniously but polite, standing only a few steps from the entrance and putting her hands behind her. There was less anger in her facade, but to Cassandra, that merely meant it was hiding in some trap door and accessible with the right words or aggressive look.

“You may speak,” she added dismissively, setting down her breastplate to hand against its holding rack and tossing the rag on it as well.

“I...wished to apologize for my conduct earlier.”

A stiff exhale through her nose. “I am listening.”

She swallowed, her chin high but her eyes low to the dirt. “I was out of turn and fueled by my emotions with regards to the situation. It was grief, but it does not justify my loss of control. For that, I hope you can forgive me.”

Evidently, she was capable of introspection. Those were all traits for which Cassandra held a short leash: grief that tried to mitigate disrespect, and disrespect that tried to make room for feelings that had no place in the field. She, as all the allies who supervised subordinates, had high expectations of decorum. However, as she looked to the side and saw the tulips resting on her table without water or a vase to call home, she let out a subtle breath.

“It is my duty to as a leader to forgive as well as censure. I am not unaware of your closeness to the Inquisitor. That does not disqualify our roles under the Inquisition’s banner. It would...make sense, that you would wish to transfer the information onto her from your own hand. But it is my responsibility.”

“Yes, Seeker,” she nodded, “thank you.” Well, that ended...well.

“I still expect your findings detailed and on my desk in two hours. After that, you can...take time, to react to it however you must.” She had turned away to her armor again, taking inventory of what remained to be cleaned. As she shifted her shoulders in their direction, the Agent rose her chin.

“I will do so. If I may say, Seeker, y--”

“Do you really think taking liberties with commentary is a wise course of action for you, Agent?” Cassandra shot a look at her, jerking her shoulder up at once.

Trevelyan’s brows lifted, as did her eyes. Her mouth rounded into a closed, pointed pout, as if she had puckered from the taste of a lemon.

“I was...just going to compliment you, Seeker.”

“Oh. And what gives you the impression I am receptive to such things at this hour?”

“I didn’t know it was a matter of time of day.”

“Ignorance does not save us all as generously as it does you, then.” Cassandra frowned with neutrality, and side-stepped. She took up her belt and the cloth hanging on the rack. She was getting to old and impatient for the musings of trainees, wasn’t she? Sweet Andraste.

She was still standing there. Ugh, she had to be dismissed, didn’t she.

“You may--”

“Wait.”

Wait? She lowered her brow and glanced peripherally at the woman, who’s expression once again changed. This time, shock. “Ugh, what now?”

“What is that, on your neck?”

That was a rare question to be asked when it was not a battle wound gushing or bruise lingering after said wound. Feeling no limbs of an insect or slithering of a snake -- Maker preserve her if that were the case -- she merely shifted her shoulders in the Mage’s direction and stared.

“What are you talking about? Are you--”

“You have her necklace.” She scowled, her oddly-colored eyes rising in their shine. “That...that is Olivia’s necklace.”

Ugh. Oh, no.

“Did you take it from her?!” she immediately raised her voice, accusatory, protective. “Does she know you...you stole it didn’t you? Can she have nothing belonging to her own self?!”

“Agent, enough!--”

“W-well then how do you have it? What use do you have for it?! Do you have any idea where that came fr--”

“I said that is enough!” their yelling grew louder. Arguing with Mages was her involuntary forte. Trevelyan’s hands fell to her sides and clenched into fists.

“You...you…” the look in her, the growing tension desiring expression.

Cassandra’s lack of armor on her body meant she had to do what she hated to do -- placate, in her own way. Setting down her belt and rag, she stepped forward and closer to her sword as subtly as she could.

“Trevelyan, stand down,” she ordered as her fists began to crackle with dark static.

“Did you steal from her?!”

“I did no such thing. I won’t say it again. Stand down.”

The tent drape flew up as two Scouts rushed in, coming to either side of the Mage just as she started to proceed towards her. They took hold of her arms and pulled her back into restraint. That would mean little if she truly wished to act upon her power.

“Stop! Release her!” Cassandra held out her hand and took two steps closer. The Scouts looked on with confused fear, but did as they were instructed. They wouldn’t dare back away though.

Trevelyan shook free of them but stood still otherwise. A vein in her forehead had arisen, going along with the pulsing tension in her temples. If anything happened to her, regardless of whether or not she had caused it onto herself, the Inquisitor would be livid. She had said so in the garden.

“Trevelyan, collect yourself or get out of my tent. Leave us,” she blinked toward the Scouts. Before they could leave as quick as they showed up, though, the Mage interrupted.

“Why do you have her necklace?!”

“I told you, I did not steal it, nor did I force it out of her possession. I--”

“She would never give it up! Not for anything. She wouldn’t...she...if you didn’t steal it then! Then...!”

The Scouts faces turned down and away, one of them lifting their brows as if they had walked in on someone undressed. Maker. She bit on her tongue and returned her eyes to Trevelyan’s, stonewalling.

“Then you…” she turned breathless, eyes wide and bright, “You are…how? How could she...you?! You, of all...!? She would never...” Well, that was a kind sentiment to hear. Cassandra, luckily, could easily turn off susceptibility to hurt vanity.

“You came to apologize for being out of bounds and I have accepted. You are dismissed.”

The Mage stood there, breathing heavier in the way scared children do when something jumps out at them from around the corner. It was dreadful. Even in her callousness Cassandra was not above sympathy. However, it was a laborious task when the person you were compelled to have it for was testing your boundaries, threatening to unveil the secrecy of your life’s most intimate choices.

All she would have to do is say ‘you are her lover’ to complete the indictment. It would be so quick, so resolute in its consequence. It all hung on just how little this woman had to lose from her point of view.

Tears welled at the bottom of her eyes, but Trevelyan only inhaled sharply and turned around, bolting out from the tent and tossing the drape disdainfully down behind her. Gone, ushering awkward silence in her absence.

The Scouts looked like humiliated garden statues trying not to be destroyed for existing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wonderful.

“Go. Now.” And they scattered back outside. Easy enough.

For the second time that evening, thoughts of scolding overcame her. She should have known better, again. She should have been more thoughtful, again. Would she ever learn from her mistakes, or keep banging her head against the obstacles they created? Because of her self-indulgence in romance she now had a Mage somewhere in the nearby countryside doing Maker-knows-what to quell her anger, and whatever else she was feeling towards her. The Inquisitor had neglected to mention potential hazards for melodrama, or that her ‘friend’ may possibly react badly to the notion of her being involved with someone. Someone like her, no less.

That being said, she could only blame herself for ruining the necessary secrecy.

Going over and sitting on the side of her cot, she planted her elbows on her knees and her face into her hands. Sighing, and groaning, in the privacy of her own foolishness. After a minute or two, her fingers went to the damning piece of jewelry she had thought covered up by layers of armor, but was all-too-easy to spot amidst shirt fabric.

“Maker, guide me…” she spoke aloud, before getting lost in her head. If it was one consolation to the travesty, it was that their time in the Hinterlands had come to a close. The mission had proved many things: one, that she could recover her faith and find reason to move forward. Second: she had more to lose if, for whatever reason, she would ever lose sight of that again. It also proved further that the world could never go back to the way it was, and the pain of bringing a new reality to life would be placed in their hands first and foremost.

If she focused hard enough, she could still feel Olivia holding onto her from behind. Her arms, thin but toned, as they took her in. Her breath on the smooth part of her shoulder just above her shoulder blade. Strands of her hair pressing and tickling against her skin. Her smile that laced her kisses she trailed up to her neck. For behavior she had long believed idle sin, in her conjuring of Olivia’s memory she found a chance for refuge. If only she could be pulled back then into her, comforted that someone saw her as more than her authority and intensity of character.

Fear of iniquity arose. Who was she to desire comfort from Olivia, when she would need it most with this fallout? If this was the challenge of caring for a woman, it was no wonder men crumbled at the notion so often.

With time spent meditating, she brought herself to her writing desk, and took hold of her quill. The act she had evaded doing, hoping Olivia would be the first to initiate letters. It was too long to wait for the report from Trevelyan. She had choices to make.

  
5th Pluitanis, 9:42

Inquisitor,

The Venatori presence in the region has been driven out thanks to our work, though it leaves much for us to further explore. Unfortunately, that is all the good news I have to relay. Attached you will find Agent Trevelyan’s report detailing her investigation, written by her own hand. The truth has come to light.

I understand that this news will not be easy for you to read, considering the demands on your strength where you are now. Know that your endurance and fortitude have gotten you this far, and I along with so many others believe in their persistence.

We will leave for Skyhold in a day’s time from the date of this letter, pending some operations near completion and a final combing of the area for unwelcome holdouts. Given the change of season, our return voyage should be less interrupted by inclement conditions than our first.

Olivia, it is with an apologetic heart that I write this. I take full responsibility for the ways in which my indecision compounded ignorance when my priority should have been advocating for clarity. I should have searched harder. I should have held this matter as close to my own heart as it is to yours. This never should have been allowed to come to pass.

Your friend is alive, although I cannot say she is at peace. Shortly after she discovered the truth of the Tranquil Mages’ whereabouts, she took notice of your gift on my person and became upset. I will do my best to have her return with us safely. You have my word.

Maker protect and preserve you. I pray for your forgiveness and favor as I do anything in this life.

Seeker Pentaghast  



	73. Ruinous Texts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fate of the Tranquil sinks under the Inquisitor's skin as she struggles to formulate damage control and push forward with operations in the Emerald Graves. A visit to the Chateau d'Onterre only compounds these emotions, as Olivia sets foot in the consequences of another Orlesian daughter being subjugated for her abilities unwanted.

A message dispatched from Camp in The Emerald Graves, for sending via immediate courier --

  
14th Pluitanis, 9:42 Dragon

Theia,

I received a missive from Seeker Pentaghast tonight regarding the Tranquil Mages. Of course, words cannot adequately convey my response and feelings with regards to what you found. I do not think I need to tell you how much it devastated me. It took me hours to even think of the words to say to you in this letter, knowing that my response needed to be immediate.

Theia, please know that whatever you uncovered in the Hinterlands – and you know what I am referring to -- I will be ready to discuss in person. I have been irresponsible, not just as a leader, but as the woman you have known for over a decade of both our lives. Everything will be made clear, this I swear.

Forgive me for not returning the fealty you have only ever disposed of readily to me and my needs.

Most humbly,

Inquisitor Sinclair  


A second message dispatched with the same courier –

  
14th Pluitanis, 9:42 Dragon

Seeker Cassandra,

You must be making your way back to Skyhold and nearly there by now. I trust that Sister Leliana will know what to do with this letter – whether to keep it for your encroaching arrival or send it onward to you wherever you are transient. I asked that it be sent with the utmost priority, given our lack of personal communication.

As for your culpability, know that it is not you I hold animus for. I have many decisions and opinions to express when I return to Skyhold: for the Advisors, for the Rebel leadership, for Dorian – but it is not my place to blame any one person for the outcome of years’ worth of misdeeds.

I meant what I said. You and I stand on the same side. I will need that assurance. I need it now, if I am to be honest, but I will swallow the ache of our distance from one another as I should.

Travel safe. You carry a piece of me with you always. Literally, and otherwise. I ask that you pray for me when you can, if you please.

With respect,

Inquisitor Sinclair  


A third and final message, sent via Raven’s scroll, to Skyhold –

  
Sister Nightingale –

Send Roslyn with reinforcements to meet the Seeker and her people halfway once Scouts detect them in the Frostbacks.

This will be the last time you force my hand to protect my friend from my Spymaster and mentor. I look forward to our chat.

\- O  


\--

Morning was beautiful in the Graves. If her insomnia had not been mysteriously alleviated by her dreams at Adamant, the Graves would have been the first location of their work where she would not have minded all that much. Alas, there were motivations for lack of sleep.

There had only ever been one woman before Cassandra that had made all of Olivia’s guarded convictions fall apart at the seams. One woman who had rocked her world to its foundations, making the meanings of faithfulness, trust, and kindness palpable to her. Worth it. One woman who had redeemed the possibilities of life, who set Olivia’s imagination ablaze. Only one, and her name was Theia Sofia Trevelyan.

Of course, those were easier feats to accomplish in children, as they were in the beginning of their lives shared together at Ostwick. Adolescents appeared bent on defying the warnings of wisdom, but they were inextricably fallible in their loyalties to one another. That simple truth had grown into the backbone of Olivia’s survival as an Apprentice. Though the Circle Tower had upended many opportunities for her, in an ironic way it also gave her what she had always hungered for but could never name: communion, solidarity, and the vigilance of companionship. Her childhood as the single-child heir apparent to House Sinclair’s destiny never promised her any of those things, but it had promised her a strangled sort of liberty.

When dawn came on the 16th day of Pluitanis, a full rise and setting of the sun after her reception of Cassandra’s letters, it greeted her as she sat by a tree perched on a cliff-side overlooking no-man’s land: territory unbothered by Freeman Disputes and largely left alone by refugee traffic. The running water cascaded down the jagged façade into the valley beyond, moving on with itself into the lush horizon. She had laid her staff against the tree trunk and embedded herself in the green grass surrounded by thicket. If she remained still long enough, she could probably attract grazing Rams or Nugs, even. But, after a half hour or so, the only presence she attracted was the one she expected even less than that of the local fauna.

“Inquisitor, may I join you?” a pensive, balanced voice.

She looked over. Shoulders dressed in armor underneath a grey fur-lined coat and vest. A staff, diagonal in the air, peeking out from behind them.

“Solas,” she replied, surprise in her tone. “Of course.”

He showed a thoughtful purse of his mouth before drawing nearer, electing to stand rather than join her on the ground. His boots were side-by-side with her where she sat, a couple feet away. He gathered his hands behind him and took in the landscape for himself.

“I did not think you would come this way so early,” she remarked, trying to make easy conversation even though what she says isn’t entirely true. He did wander at dawn, rather frequently in fact. His comings and goings were largely unknown to everyone around him, permitted by weary trust.

“I wished to inquire myself as to why you left camp so early and armed, given our initiatives for the day’s work did not include anything about you traveling alone.”

“I practice magic in the mornings rather often. You know that.”

“I also know that you go east, rather than north, to do so. Closer to the riverbed where we combatted that rift.”

“You’ve been watching me.”

“You are hard to miss, Inquisitor.”

She blew air through her nose. There was no rhyme or reason to critiquing his decisions. He had hardly spoken a word to her throughout the tenure of the mission. Only when she had tossed herself in harm’s way for his sake, and then once more for Blackwall, did he crack. What was that to say of his reverence?

“I know that you mourn, Inquisitor. It is to be expected, despite the claim of separatism between those branded and those not.”

Her skin crawled, shooting hairs on her arms and elbows up into the cold morning air. There was a defensive will in her that she could not bite back. “I manage many energies in my day. A singular investment in any of them is not why I do what I do, when I do it.”

“Does that diminish your attachment to any one of them, or your dedication to the injustices prescribed to their origins?”

“It diminishes my ability to…” she stopped, a tightness in her chess robbing her of steady breath. “It…it means I have many reasons for reclusion, and yet no time to mitigate it.”

He betrayed his aloofness one more time, crouching down onto his legs and then sitting down. He bent his legs up and apart, anchoring his straight arms out on the peaks of his knees. Rugged posture for an artfully composed elven apostate.

“What are you doing here, Solas?” she asked, defeated and looking ahead. Her fingers pick apart grass sticking out by her crossed legs.

“I explained myself when I first arrived.”

“No, I mean, what are you really here for. Underneath the feigned austerity and taking advantage of my needing comfort?”

He paused, also keeping his vision locked forward. This was not as they had once been. The measured and reticent apostate emphatic in the need to save the world, and the young mage eager to learn from the “other” – an elf, a loner, who traveled and saw the world she was told would never allow her to exist for all she was. But even in her robbed freedoms she had reasons to not give up. She had her feelings, her most secret desires locked away in the depths of her oceanic heart. She had sacrosanct depths. She had prowess. Not everyone got what she did, and instead of rectified, their circumstances were exploited in the most sinister of ways.

“Inquisitor,” Solas said again, concerned.

Olivia blinked back into focus and noticed smoke streams coming from below her visage. She had clutched the grass strands she had been previously playing with, pressing them into ash. Her frown deepened, and she released her prisoners from her attempt at catharsis.

“I asked a question, Solas.”

“Are you prepared for the answer?”

“Never to your standards, I am sure.”

He tilted his head in her direction. His stare landed on her side profile, but she kept still. It had gotten old turning her head side-to-side so everyone could see what had been done to her. The scar was there. The hair was not. But her life, her life was still intact.

“Your Worship, if I have done something to offend you, it was not my intention.”

She huffed again, silently, but with a sting in her throat. Her knee cocked upward against her chest, her arms wrapping around it. He continued once it became clear she would not dignify him with words.

“You asked me when we first arrived here what I thought. At the time, I understood your inquiry to be one of unassuming compassion. I denied an explanation in favor of attention to our responsibilities. It is clear now that you have perceived my refrain as a disapproval of your care.”

“It is that easy for you to understand why I may be cautious, Solas, but it is so difficult for you to prevent setting it in motion in the first place. Why is that?”

“Hindsight and foresight cannot simultaneously use the same spyglass, Inquisitor; it is our task to learn when and how we pass the line of sight between one and the other.”

“If you have only but one eye for which to see either, then your problem lies not in the balance, but in your pretense that you were not born with two to eyes use. Un masque est fait avec deux trous.” A mask is made with two holes. A turn of phrase that fits well – too well – with her argument.

“And what of those born into blindness by any of the possible innumerable circumstances which they cannot control, but may be given the chance to react to?”

“The blind know more about the capability of perception than those of us who indulge the belief the world will shape itself around us squandering it.”

He eyed her, chin raised. “I do not mean to divert the subject, however, you have been utilizing your nation’s language with increasing frequency since coming here. Is there reason, or have I merely not spent enough time around you to notice?”

_Well, shit, maybe it’s both, Solas._

“I speak it when I am stressed.”

“I am surprised you do not favor it outright, then, for your path is one of incessantness in that regard.”

Her tongue ached beneath the pressure of her teeth. The view had lost all its specific wonder. Colors and fissures of light were unremarkable and contaminated by his intrusion.

“You have made it clear that you have no objective interest in my personal struggles, Solas. Why are you prodding now? Is there some knowledge to gain? Some ephemeral brilliance in my regularity that you have only now just discovered?”

“If you believe my interests to be so shallow and unaccommodating, perhaps it would be beyond me to even attempt sympathy, since such a characterization precludes an incompetency for it.”

“It is not an insult to remind you of what you have established as decorous precedent. Or, will you finally admit that it was laced with insult all this time?”

“Your dependence on clever vitriol as an outlet for your frustrations will do little to quell the pain of loss, nor will it lead to the vindication you see yourself as having been robbed of. You struggled to accept that lesson in Haven when it was the Conclave’s severing your ties to your companions that pressed a thorn to your side, and you struggle with it now under the weight of your role. I wonder, has your pursuit of it yielded any peace?”

Her blood was molten and ached to burn. She met his gaze at last, and he looked as if he expected it on cue. His talent for pushing buttons and picking wounds he located, even amidst the smoke and mirrors, was decisively wicked in a way. Her heel etched deeper into the soil.

“You have no right to judge my lapses in identity in times of pain,” she detracted, shifting her gaze back outward.

“I am not endeavoring to judge, Inquisitor. Only to understand, and perhaps offer relief in your solitude. That is all.”

“Relief to my solitude? Who said I needed relief?”

“No one. Expression of needs does not restrict itself to the verbal.”

“That is empathetic of you.”

He grinned crookedly in response to the ever-so-slight lightening of her tone. “One cannot traverse the realm of spirits and remain ignorant to the potency of feeling that which another exudes. Sensitivity is a modest accolade to acquire.”

“Solas, with all due respect, you make modesty sound like looking up at a mountain peak from the pit of the valley under its nose on a foggy day -- and that is an understatement.” She lets her legs spread out straight as she sat back onto her hands. The ground was saturated with morning condensation that clung to her palms.

“Hm,” he muses, “that may be a fair observation.”

“May?”

The corners of her mouth lifted, but it was a temporary reprieve. In every emotion, every flux of her mood, she was reminded: reminded, in a pitying way, of the ones in the world who couldn’t do what she could in arguing with her ally over the merits of connected feeling.

“Solas,” she said, after a momentary silence, “It hurts.”

“I am aware.”

“It hurts…and the worst part is I feel privileged to be that way. Isn’t that insane of me? To live in this world, and know that there are thousands of people, perhaps tens of thousands, who believe it is perfectly sound logic that if I am too much myself, too ingratiated in the capabilities bestowed unto my mind and body, to take away a piece of my soul?”

“Inquisitor,” he replied, “our paths reintroduce us to new and often unsettling truths about the world in which we live. Even more so, it calls on us to reckon with how we contribute to them. If it is any consolation – and I understand the threshold for that to be quite high, in your circumstance – you have surprised me in the ways which you have faced it for yourself.”

It was less likely than most people would believe that two Mages could get along for the pure and simple reality of them both being Mages. It was like expecting two wolves to be able to immediately coalesce into a bond between packmates, based on the premise of both being despised by the hunters with weapons on their trail. Bonding in trauma when trauma invoked a universe of possible experiences was not intimacy in joy, but intimacy in being near-death. Solas was one of many Mages who represented a light beacon quickly overused when it became clear that the phrase ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ was a gross misunderstanding of what it would take to have them see eye-to-eye. However, she would look up to him in more ways than she could care to admit.

He rose to his feet with humble dexterity, not bothering to dust off or rid himself of any litter he collected. Clearly, he had gone beyond the limit of his expenditure of counsel, in spite of his divulged intention of providing it. Typical. Olivia sighed to herself; whether to believe his half-hearted regard had lost its fun. If he would ever wish to make his sentiments abundantly clear, that was on him.

“Thank you, Solas. I appreciate the concern. Safe walk back to camp.”

“I am not leaving, Inquisitor. I was going to ask if you would like to walk the forest with me. There are many relics of a time long lost within the overgrowth of these lands. Even in its disparaging history, I think there is something to be appreciated in their survival.”

She lifted her chin to him and saw his attempt at pleasantry for what it was – or, maybe, what it could only be to her in the depths of her gloom. An unsatisfying olive branch reaching out to her for the taking, one that promised no substantial change or permanent divergence from standard. Yet, it beat sitting alone, crying some more, and growing her disdain for the world in its dependence on the same beings it crushed under its boots and wheels at every opportunity. Not by much, though.

“Sure,” she muttered, wiping off her lap and pulling her feet up under her, rising onto them with sore muscles. “We shouldn’t stay out long, though. We are supposed to venture out to the Chateau eastward today for possible holdouts and rifts.”

He nodded, before stepping towards the path. “Yes. That we must. I do, however, think it wise that we discuss your plans for amending that which has been done to the Tranquil. Then, you can hardly say our time will have been wasted avoiding our work.”

“How did you know I was planning in the first place?” She started walking, still finding herself settling into a pace where she was always just slightly behind him.

He grinned again, his arms quietly stiff at his sides as they came down onto the rough trail. “You do not waste an opportunity to react, Inquisitor. Nor should you ever do so. Inaction ushers the fall from grace where action had forged it.”

\--

They did travel and infiltrate the east Chateau later that day – a place that made Villa Maurel feel like a pampered paradise. Covered in enchanted darkspawn, commanded and controlled by a Revenant demon that protected some sacred treasure valued by fools. That would have been offensive enough; alas, what got under Olivia’s skin the most had nothing to do with the supernatural horrors that awaited their blades and enchantments. It was the books. It was the shelves and shelves of books.

Magics, parlor tricks, illusions. All traces of a daughter of the Onterre family being shut away to preserve their reputation.

When their final standoff in the yard had long since ended, and blood had dried as much as stained their armor layers and weapons, she wandered back onto the library floor. Contrary to what they did at Villa Maurel, they had held back Scout reinforcements at the gates for immediate deployment. A precaution due to both hers and Solas’s senses picking up on what awaited them. Forest walks, as it turned out, had many functions.

The library was vast, and so much larger than the one she knew as a child in the Sinclair estate. Two sides parted by a grand staircase balcony and then a walkway. The books were disorganized, and that was putting it lightly. Someone had been feverishly removing and replacing them with little care as to where they originally belonged.

She came and stood by a table were several uneven stacks had been sprawled, a considerable film of dust covering them.

“These books aren’t worth the price of the materials it takes to produce them,” she said as she took one into her hands. The illustration on the cover – a Mage with grey skin, monstrous eyes, and sharpened teeth making the world around them bend to their will and sinister smile – was reminiscent of the old horror bedtime stories her Father would bring to her. A gross and contemptuous caricature. Orlesian fixation on the exotified ‘other’ had not changed since she had left her motherland’s borders.

“instructions pour invoquer le malveillant,” she read aloud from the spine etching. Her voice grew more poisonous in its disdain with every word.

Having followed after her, Solas spoke from a distance. “I imagine that does not sit well with you.”

“Sit well.” She bit the inside of her cheek and set the book down. “What makes me different from this girl? I was but a stain of a family’s good name, once. A few differences, and that portrait in the wing might as well be a mirror to me.” Her words burned in the back of her dry, cracked throat from hours of yelling and dictating movements.

From the stairs below, Bull’s thunderous baritone carried itself with confidence. “Boss, it’s all clear. The men say we can move on, they’ve got it handled here.”

Her hand went to the left side of her head. The bristles of what remained, and then the ridge of her scar, swelling had gone down rather well in a matter of a couple days. Something to touch while the anger in her listed its demands. She stepped back and pivoted towards Solas, the weight of the staff at her back pinching against her shoulder blade.

He met her eyes. “Are we finished here?”

Not enough. A voice in her mind said not enough. _Your plan is foolish, Ruben. She must be made…made safe. They have ways of making Mages safe. If we can arrange for someone…for something to be done, she can be sent to our hunting cottage and no one would find out. Locking her away at the promise of her obedience is not enough. If she so much as has a slight outburst around witnesses we are done for. We…we are already done for._

There were reasons why Olivia and Naomi were so close. There was a reason why Naomi had become welcome into their little group all those years ago, and it was because one day in the Circle hall two girls had seen each other – two runaway wolves in the wild unknown and armored men hunting for reasons to annihilate them. They both knew what it was to look in the faceless metallic shape of a Templar helmet and say “no, I will not do anything like this again, you have my word. Please, just don’t…” and not be able to finish the sentence. The same threat she had heard only once before, through the locked door of her mother’s bed chambers.

“Does this surprise you, Inquisitor, given all we have encountered in the wake of the Empire’s deeds?”

“No,” she replied, a bit breathless as her eyes glazed. “It just disgusts me.”

Then, and only then, did he go still and wordless. She came to the hall where he stood alone, seeing the clear path back to the stairs. The rugs were now the ledger of their work there: covered in blood stains, darkspawn limbs every couple yards. She could have gone, him at her side, and leave as they were given the go-ahead to do. She could have done many things. She could have been many people. On the 16th day of Pluitanis, Olivia Sinclair as the world had come to know her, could have decided to drop everything and run. To cut off all her hair, steal a horse, and escape to lands uncharted. Find someone to fall in complacent love with and become a sheepherder or a miner. She could leave the world to accept its fate and be consumed by it alongside everyone else.

But the point was that she had the choice. And there would always be people, as there had been when she was a child, who would see it as lucrative to pretend otherwise. The Templars, the Seekers, the Chantry – the Empires that pretended to controlled them.

“Bull!” Olivia strut towards the railing overlook to see him standing, folded arms as he leaned against the stairwell.

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Have people vacate this entire wing of the Chateau at once. In fact, have them vacate the entire premises and return to the gates.”

His face bent sideways. “You found some more dead crawling shit?”

“No. No danger. Please, do as I ask.”

“You got it.”

He left down the steps, leaving her and Solas alone again. The apostate approached her, brow lowered. “Inquisitor, is something troubling you?”

She swallowed and scanned the library one last time. “There is nothing here for the Inquisition to benefit from but grave robbing from grave robbers. I am burning this place to the ground from the gold enamel on the ceilings, down to the very last cerulean tile.”

He stayed calm even as her temper rattled her words. “Are you sure that is a wise use of your ability and our time?”

“Yes. I want this all destroyed. I want nothing here to be remembered. That is what I want, Solas.” She shifted his shoulder and faced him head on. “And as Inquisitor, it is also what I command.”

His hands behind him as he swayed in his step towards the roundabout path to the mouth of the stairs. “Very well, Your Worship. But may I just remind you, as you do this, that it was Mages who took the lives of the Tranquil into their hands as material benefit. Antagonists linger elsewhere, and not just where they hide hoping to one day reclaim their splendorous holdings.”

“Yes, and it was a daughter who’s extended relatives will always remember her as a murderer, because there was nowhere for her to go where she would not be made invisible. There are enough Orlesian Chateaus in the world as museums to children and their suffering.”

He left for the lower level. She was no one to be dissuaded from vengeance. His insights into her discontent that morning had only been vindicated – her mouth was starving for justice. Yet, justice was the costume of many a duplicitous need. That left her with the library and her thoughts. Thoughts that mirrored sounds of aggressive animals with teeth more than sentences. Perhaps the book cover was onto something with the picture of the Mage with ferocious teeth. Orlais was piss poor at choosing which horrible daughters to do away with. 

It would not be a fire disrespectful to the Graves and the land. She would ignite and stand in it, until it came time to clasp her hands and snuff it out. She would arise from the smoldering remnants and take her people back to camp safe and untouched, and there would be nothing left.

Holding her palms toward the roof and parallel to the ground at waist level, her memories connected back to Crestwood. The episode in the water where the sun found kinship in her body. Once she found its resonating imprint on her soul, she pressed her wrath against it like kindling to a firepit spark. Rather than spread fire across the ground like a flood, she opted for scattered, individual books on every tall shelf. Small, and slow, and agonizing, as if she were wishing death upon a body. Her vision turned to white, and for a minute, all she could see was bright oblivion.

Chateau d’Onterre was unrecognizable less than an hour later, only providing rubble for the Inquisitor to step through and over as she emerged to the audience of her crew and allies. The black warpaint lining her eyes had spread in a streak across the bridge of her nose and her temples and sweat had caused it to streak down her cheeks. When she returned, Bull was the first to engage her. The sky had lost its somber blue.

“You good?” he asked simply, friendly for it being a question of a woman who had just reduced an entire mansion to an ashen pit.

Stepping down the small knob hill, she didn’t look back. There was nothing mysterious about what was behind her in her path. She rubbed her fingers against her palm and glanced at him, before giving a soft and modest smile. There wasn’t an inch of her exposed body that wasn’t at least lightly cloaked in charcoal soot.

“Yeah, Bull. I’m good.”

He believed her, which was a braver thing than most would do. And, to be fair, probably a mistake. While they trekked back to their encampment, the last line in Lord Onterre’s journal was almighty in her mind’s eye –

_"So long as she stays inside, everything will be all right."_

_\--_

A page which is partially ripped in the corner. It is in the back of the book, written with a heavy hand, perhaps inebriated, with stains of moisture dried and curdled. --

  
No one asked evil for it to name itself such; 

__

__

It merely stood in the way of good and said no further.

No one testified on behalf of the wicked

without first confessing they knew its fellowship first.

 

No one asked the enchantress in these stories

if she wished to be remembered as a venomous ghost.

No one asked the demon who they wished to be

before the world said it needed something to kill.

 

No one asks me what my sins water in myself,

And I am allowed to kiss children and hold the injured.

No one wonders why my eyes go black when I dream;

Maybe they shouldn’t – for I do not have the answer.

 

When the southern sun comes to burn my body,

I hope my ashes consume the gilded cages built atop these graves,

Blackening the gold so deeply, the crows lose their reflection.

And when they cry in vain, it will cloak my phantom laughter.  



	74. As In Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their way back to Skyhold, Seeker Pentaghast and her contingent run into a setback in the Frostback range which causes them to camp at an Outpost for the night. The skirmish inspires her to do what every bone in her body advises her not to, and talk to Agent Trevelyan about the issues between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Battle violence, death.

A note accompanying dispatched messages from the Inquisitor’s couriers, via Raven --

  
C -- Do not engage Trevelyan, but ensure her safety. Inquisitor will have to return soon.  


\--

They have crossed into the Frostback territory when the Inquisitor’s letter reaches the Seeker and her party. Leliana must have had reason to forward it in haste, as evidenced by her note. 

As they rode up the range, Olivia’s written words narrated the journey. Cassandra wasn’t sure what she should have expected from her. She, the woman who expected direct order above all, wishing the woman she cared for could have been an ounce more romantically affirming in her correspondence. It was a hopeless desire to have.

Besides: there was, Maker willing, a futurity to look forward to. Leliana’s warning that she would have to disengage the Graves and return to Skyhold meant that she would see her face again, with all its changes, its weathering, its recovery. She wanted it all, and she wanted it sooner than time and distance would ever allow.

They reached the second Inquisition scout post on the path, the compounding elevation making the air in their lungs less substantial by the hour. Cassandra rode ahead and stopped on a curved overlook in the ridge-lining path, a break in the treeline revealing a still horizon of snow and jagged peaks. The hood she wore had done well enough to keep her warm, but it hampered her need to be vigilant.

“Seeker,” a Scout approached, walking through the knee-high snow. “Looks clear from here. We might be able to make it to the third outpost before sundown.”

They were making good time. “Good,” she replied as her horse bobbed its head, clanking its bit between his teeth. “The skies appear calm. We will push on, then.”

“Aye, Seeker,” the Scout replied, and withdrew. No one was lingering with Seeker Pentaghast on orders. They hardly did before, but after her confrontation with Trevelyan, no one wanted to be next on the chopping block. Predictable.

In the back of her mind, though, it was a thing to wonder: were they scared because of witnessing her temper, or scared of wronging the woman who may or may not be the Inquisitor’s newest conquest? Such a logic was insufferable to entertain. She was never defined by her personal life, and took care to ensure that precedent. Yet, she and the Inquisitor were playing with fire. It was as they had argued in her quarters that night: all of Thedas was paying sobering attention to them and their decisions. While world had followed Cassandra’s shadow for years, she may have come to take for granted that she would see the same lurking shadow every time she turned around.

Maker, none of that would matter, if she could just see her again.

Her horse stood and rested for a moment longer while people prepared to depart the current post for the next one, several miles out. It was not a long trek so-to-speak, but the terrain was demanding on stamina. All the more reason to have some working compassion for the soldiers and Scouts traversing on foot. Even the one whom she had nothing but ire for.

‘Do not engage Trevelyan.’ Fine, just the idea she had in mind. So far in their journey, the Mage had done well to keep out of her way. She seemed to have congenial enough relationships with her fellow Scouts, anyhow. That was enough.

Done with being in place and the uneasiness it invited in her, she gathered her reins and guided her horse around back to the contingent. Everyone was at attention, ready to move forward. As was she.

But something wasn’t right.

Pulling her horse to another, more abrupt halt, she looked up at the cliffside they were perched on. Dense, snow-blanketed tree lines. The path narrowed just ahead of them, for about a quarter mile. It would be a prime choke point, and those always got on her nerves. It would have been different if they were traveling with the full group as they did with the Inquisitor at the helm, but this offset group was smaller. Less formidable, but still carrying an Inquisition banner. Still a target.

“Something wrong, Seeker?” the same Scout approached in the snow. A young woman, who looked no older than her mid-twenties. Cassandra narrowed her eyes, seeing no movements in the surrounding land. But there was noise. Noise when there was no wind.

Cassandra clenched her teeth and bent backwards onto her horse’s hindquarters, curving her back inch-for-inch against the curve of her saddle-seat. In the blink of an eye dual blades flew downward, angled for her as the endpoint. They flew over her, a tip of one of their blades flying within an inch of her nose. Because that was what she needed -- more face scars.

Out of air, she pulled her leg up and around, sliding onto her feet as her horse side-stepped. She called the men to arms, and unsheathed her sword. It started as it always did: quick and haphazard. The trees came alive with bodies dressed in rough range clothes. No armor or regalia. Likely bandits, or smugglers, looking to take a piece for themselves out of their two supply wagons and loaded saddlebags.

Cassandra locked on one of them and started swinging -- a rotund man with a wood-and-metal round shield and a sword. He yelled with every thrust of his weapon like a mad man, and truthfully that was the most skilled attribute of his fighting style. An exchange of blocks and swings and she had gotten his weak-spot, cutting into his side. Behind her another assailant tried their best, this time with an ax. She pivoted and let it catch on her sword, shoving him back to get space. Once accomplished she lifted her leg and kicked him square in the chest, causing him to fall flat into the snow drift behind his feet.

A foot on his ax arm and a plunge of her sword, and he was like his comrade: done for.

All around her there was fighting -- a fray of blades and arrows. They were likely matched or outnumbered. Wonderful. Ripping off her hood, she scanned for new enemies to strike down. Everywhere she looked, her people had at least one combatant. It was her job, then, to shift the tide. Going at it, she went after three more adversaries with her men, all easy kills compared to the typical field. If anything, it brought back memories of a time when she wasn’t having to slaughter demons and call it a warm-up.

When the third enemy fell choking on his own blood, she looked at the Scout who had helped her, now her ally in battle, as they both exhaled steam into the air. The sounds of yelling off in the distance -- more aggravation. Cassandra wiped her mouth, and looked on, as a half dozen more men made a second insurgence towards them. What had they happened upon, a Conclave for all miscreants in the surrounding hundred miles.

They weren’t the only ones to come forth from the wilderness, however. As Cassandra dug her feet into the snow alongside her subordinate, ready to continue, thunder rolled across the skies. It made no sense to hear such a thing from the dormant, flatly grey skies, where no storm clouds resided. Had she read the weather wrong? Impossible.

“Fall back!” a voice yelled from their right flank, coming out of the forest. Cassandra, the one who was to give commands, looked up to see her. Trevelyan, once again usurping leadership, sprinting with her Mage’s staff. One of her compatriots at her side, primed with a bow and arrow. _She isn’t supposed to be in combat._

Trevelyan ran out past them solo, while the archer fell onto bent knee in the snow, taking aim at the oncoming men. Cassandra, impulsively desiring to run after her -- only a fool headed towards a group without backup -- was a blink too-slow to react. For, as the thunder pulsed in the sky, Theia struck the ground with her staff, holding it in both her hands.

“I mean it! Fall back!” she yelled again. The thundering grew louder.

If it was one thing Cassandra resented most, it was being ordered by those she believed unfit. But, after a year of fighting an Olivia’s side, she had seen more than her fair share of hazardous enchantments consuming the field. She grabbed onto the Scout by the shoulder plate and pulled them both back some yards, just in time for the show to start. The thunder cracked into lightening branches that cascaded down from the sky seemingly out of thin air, utilizing her staff as some sort of collecting center. The gust of wind enveloped them like the eye of a storm. The gusts were near-deafening, yet the woods and mountains looked undisturbed beyond their area. A contained epicenter informing one person’s abilities.

The lightning spread from the weapon onto the Mage’s arms and shoulders, and became too bright to stare at without an arm to partially shield her vision. She had conjured a personal typhoon out of nothing. A storm Mage.

A blunt force of momentum electrocuted the men who were close to striking-distance from her. Cassandra crouched with the Scout and the archer, hips and knees embraced by the snow. Men’s cries and smoke consumed the senses. It was one one of the most instant, reckless, and understated performances of widespread enchantment she had seen since the Inquisitor first began to flex her muscles in the field -- but that was after months and months of intensive training.

This woman had maybe a month in the ranks, and she had been missing sessions left and right.

Within a breath, the wind subsided and the cries ended their concert. Cassandra let her arm fall, and was the first to stand and see for herself what remained. There, beyond them, Trevelyan stood with a wide and heavy stance, chest leaned against her staff that still stood taller than she. A faint sound of heavy, but light-pitched panting.

“Sweet Andraste,” the Scout said as she rose. “That was amazing.”

Cassandra swallowed what little spit she had to spare, a light bead of sweat falling down the side of her face. Glancing behind her, there were only a few bodies on the ground that she could identify as being their own ranks, and most were moving. It was not a hard hit, but could have been. An inconvenience that would have costed them more than it should have.

“Check the men in the back, and the cargo. We will regroup and camp at this outpost for the night.” That was enough for a day, if she could help it.

\--

Camp at the outpost was easier on the spirit than abroad due to the promise of the Fortress being that much closer. In a slightly disconcerting way, it mimicked what nearing home was in stories she would read all by herself. A sensation Cassandra was not an authority on by any means. ‘Home’ was where she stood with her own two feet, and nothing more -- and it had been that way for years. No reason made itself known for that to change, and certainly no need to feel sorry about it. 

There had been injuries, but no fatalities -- a good result, considering it would have been a travesty to lose good men to such a ridiculous skirmish. That was the easy part of the aftermath; the harder to swallow aspect was, of course, the woman who ensured that result. The one who had taken to lounging by the fire while her fellow Scouts asked her about where she got her abilities all throughout supper. That was an evening entertainment Cassandra had no stake in.

Time did pass, though, and with it people resumed their positions: some on patrol of the perimeter, or on watch. Others prepared status reports to send via Ravens. The injured were allowed to rest in a couple hastily-pitched tents.

In the brief respite, Cassandra secluded herself to one of the wagons for the purpose of reading. Or, rather, re-reading -- and the material is not exactly literary. The letter had stayed safe and unstained, pressed between her armor and her underclothes. Leaned up against the wood in the wagon bed beside gathered resources and supplies, she was little more than a begotten soldier indulging in a love letter from someone, somewhere far away. Pitiful, but unapologetic.

She had been dissecting it for hints of encrypted vulnerability. Not just for the sake of her own hunger for affection, but to indicate how she’s doing. Olivia was strong. She was so strong. But she also let everything that happened in the field leave its mark on her. She was impressionable. She cared more than she showed.

The one line that crushed the Seeker more than all the others was thus --

_“You carry a piece of me with you always. Literally, and otherwise. I ask that you pray for me when you can, if you please.”_

As if she ever needed to ask for that, ever.

Before Cassandra had ever liked her -- indeed, before she had ever truly respected her -- she had prayed for her. Prayed for that which she believed Olivia lacking, for the hope that she, regrettably, could transform into someone different from who she was. It was a guilty memory to compare with how much she meant to her after all that time. How much she had come to understand her and what informed her behavior.

She folded the letter back into its original shape, putting it to her mouth and nose as she stared off, contemplative. The camp had gone quiet, but not the upsetting kind like earlier in the day. The peace of people up and about, keeping to themselves, all the while burning firewood crumbled and decayed to ash. No laughter, though. Olivia would have made it full of laughter.

In her usual but unhelpful way, she left the wagon with thoughts of scolding for herself. It was ridiculous to pine, especially after what had transpired between her and Trevelyan, who was still planted by the fire, looking like she was unlacing her field boots while sitting on one of their makeshift benches. Alone for the first time since her act of heroism.

She was pretty. Shining white hair, long and over her shoulder. A defined jaw but softened cheekbones, picturesque like a woman from an aristocrat’s painting. However she, like Cassandra, had the look of a woman who survived run-ins with sharp objects: a scar down her right eye, from above her brow to below the side of her nose, like an animal -- or person -- had sought to claw it from her skull. She was young, but not naive-looking. Not the way people took for granted in the Inquisitor’s demeanor the first weeks after the Conclave. There was absolutely no reason to do anything besides what Leliana had recommended, and leave her alone. However...where Leliana’s orders espoused cut-throat logic, Olivia’s echoed risky compassion. They argued frequently.

Every step towards the fire went against the grain of who she was, a person who left well enough alone and kept to the business of things. But, if she could get to know Olivia, and indeed most every single one of their allies even when it was easier to leave them alone, she could make do with this instance.

“Trevelyan.”

She looked up, her hands halting in their task of unlacing her shoes. “Seeker.”

It was welcome enough. Cassandra came around the opposite bench and sat. What then? At least with an argument there was some kind of momentum. “Are you injured?”

“No. Just drained.”

“...Hm.” Cassandra watched the fire and leans forward, elbows on her thighs.

“You?” Trevelyan returned while she continued on with her shoelaces, yanking them decisively loose.

“No, thank the Maker,” she exhaled, habitually.

Trevelyan huffed, though the reason for it was conveniently disguised by her muscling through her shoes. She pulled the boot off with both hands on the toe and heel, groaning as she did so.

“You did not disclose your capabilities when you began field training,” Cassandra’s curiosity took up where her social awkwardness and ego left off. 

“What is there to disclose? I am a Mage, that isn’t a secret,” she rebuffed, taking a rag she had tucked over her shoulder. With renewed vigor, she began rubbing the dried mud and dirt off the shoe heel first.

“Mages are not one in the same, and the Inquisitor has done her best to--”

“Olivia, you mean.”

Cassandra bit down on her cheek. “She...has done her best to ensure all Mages are appreciated for their strong-suits while serving.”

“I bet she has." Slight sarcasm.

“And what exactly are you trying to insinuate, Agent?”

Trevelyan once again paused her chore. Even though there was resilience in her words, there was defeat in her face. It is an all-too-familiar look. But the Mage just sighs, and purses her lips together, her hand going back to his circular motion of cleaning off grime.

“Has she told you anything about me, Seeker? Or about her life in the Circle, besides the traumas that inform her politics as a leader?”

Cassandra’s back arched a bit against the rigidity of her armor, but she kept steady. It was a poignant question to receive in the midst of difference. What would Trevelyan care to know about her knowledge of the Inquisitor’s past? Obviously she already believed her under-qualified and insensitive.

“She...has done a great deal to ensure her own privacy. What she has divulged most often concerns her past friendships. Yours, included.”

“Hmph,” Trevelyan hums, setting down one boot in favor of the other. “So, nothing.”

“You walk a fine line, Mage.”

“Yes, but I walk it with lethal accuracy, Seeker. I have to wonder, do you call Olivia by the same hostile label as you do me? Or is that only for Mages who have yet to inspire you to recognize their basic rights?” She stops cold again, her stare precise. Chilling almost. Purple eyes that had long-since been written off as pretty but shallow, had become the prelude to the power she exhibited against their enemies. No longer dismisseable.

Tension shifted into Cassandra’s shoulders and neck. She folded her arms against her breastplate, metal grading against metal. “Why is it you hold so much hatred for me as if you can afford to act upon it? Does the scorned act of indiscriminate spite not get old?”

“Heh,” she smirked dryly, “wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Oh, I most certainly would,” she confirms, not missing a beat.

Trevelyan shrugs. “Why don’t you ask her when we get back. I’m sure she’d love to talk about it. I’m sure she trusts you wholeheartedly to understand why it is she is the way she is, why she keeps her secrets…”

Looking for a way to busy her hands that are itching now to punch a sparring straw man, Cassandra reached for the buckles on her ribs loosening them up so as to make breathing easier to match with her racing heartbeat.

“In any case, why did you come here?” the Mage takes up the silence again, as she finishes cleaning her second boot. “I bet you got a much nicer order than the one I got from Skyhold, telling me to keep to myself or risk being dismissed.”

Leliana. Always dual-wielding her intimidation tactics for safe-keeping. It was a smart philosophy, but not entirely effective. Though, the inquiry remains: what compelled her to set foot there, to talk to her, no less?

“I…” Cassandra rolls her lip a bit, blinking as her gaze returns to the embers between them. A flash of sincerity that even she wished could have stayed secret. There is no one near them, on either side of her peripheral awareness. No third party, no intrigued audience. Just them. And maybe if she couldn’t have Olivia’s presence, she could have the next best thing.

“I wished to discuss what happened at Redcliffe.”

“Discuss?” she snorts.

“Yes. And I would be careful with the entitled attitude you think you are able to get away with.”

“Does anything you say not come in the form of a threat?” A fair question. Overruled, but fair.

“I can also stand and leave, and let your gloating return to being an individual activity. I must warn you, it will be short-lived.”

Trevelyan shook her head, but checked herself. Maker, she was exhausting. “I just have one question for you. You can skip the righteous testimony, the beautiful tragic story of how this all came to be. I don’t want that. I want an answer, and only one answer.”

Bold. Honestly, it was also a relief. It wasn’t exactly a planned conversation, and no preparation meant that contrary to Trevelyan’s prediction, it would have been a clumsy discussion. Cassandra looked off to the side, girding herself for whatever nauseating intrusion she was about to face. Then, she glared back across the flames.

“What would it be, then?”

Trevelyan’s stare was unbroken, unafraid. Maybe it was out of foolishness, or genuine character. “Why do you love her?”

Love? Sweet Maker. The flush in her face is palpable even to Cassandra, as she resists the urge to defend herself with scalding toughness.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. The fire is quiet enough.”

“Did they overestimate your dosage of healer’s herbs, or are you genuinely this entitled to information beyond your reach?”

“I’m her best friend, is who I am. You know, the person who’s watched her grow up from child to woman. If we were everyday people with everyday lives, you would be expected to gain my approval.” Her noble upbringing, for however brief it might have been before she was encircled, shined through again. Alas, she was correct, in that annoying sort of way.

Cassandra scoffed low. “I would be careful with the use of present tense.” She hadn’t forgotten why Olivia was at the Conclave, and though Veronica had more blame as to what endangered her, it was Trevelyan who inspired them both to go where they were not invited. That kind of loyalty was rare, and in their case, mistaken.

Trevelyan’s eyes twitched, her gaze lowering. She just was otherwise undaunted. “If I had perished today, you wouldn’t have room to doubt.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“I will ask again, Seeker: why is it that you love her? Her, out of all people? A Mage who has every reason to hate people like you and everything you stand on, and for as long as I knew her, did so. Why her?”

She did hate her. In the beginning, there was nothing in the Inquisitor’s golden eyes but judgment, hidden and softened by a clever smile. It used to be none of Cassandra’s concern. The Inquisitor’s temper was the shield she used to protect herself and her hopes. A melancholic reality they both had in common.

Maybe that was what did it.

“I’m waiting all night, aren’t I?” Trevelyan broke through her thoughts. She had crossed one leg over the other.

Cassandra sucked on her teeth, once again provoked out of her mental hiding place. Love was a commitment she wasn't ready to admit to her own mind, let alone to an antagonistic stranger. That being said, Trevelyan's interest came across more like an inquiry as to why a hunter went after a certain stag, than why a person loved another. Pleading, almost, and concerning outright. Was this a common interpretation of her character? Hopefully not. Cassandra may have given the impression to the world that she was durable and not easily impressed, but she was never above caring. Or...discursive maneuvers.

“I suppose I could ask you the same question, couldn’t I?”

The Mage’s eyes flicked wide, and then narrowed in a hateful expression. “Even you eat up fortress gossip then. Typical Andrastian principles, huh?”

 _Maker, give me strength._ “I heed not the petty squabbling of people, Trevelyan. Unfortunately for you, I wouldn’t have to, to see the truth.”

“So, what then? You believe the stories? That I was in love with her, and we were all torrid lovers squandering our youth and the hearts of innocent men?” she stiffened her crossed arms.

“No, it is because--” she stopped herself, taking a short breath. “I watched the Inquisitor work tirelessly to become the leader she is now, all the while in private she mourned. How she carried her anguish, as we all did, along in our journeys. You dare to criticize and condemn me, but you are just as vulnerable. If you want my answer, perhaps you should scrutinize what yours would be. As for your feelings, they are of no consequence to me.”

Trevelyan did not talk, opting instead to rub her thighs and stare at the ground. Not as confident as she was at the start. Then...a chuckle? She was chuckling. Softly, chin tucked, but...chuckling.

“Fine then, Seeker.” Warm, affectionate, even. She pulled her leg up, her heel hooked on the edge of the bench as she hugged her knee close to her chest. “Olivia is impossible. She is crass for no reason, and she picks fights where she shouldn’t. She has the most disagreeable temper of anyone I’ve ever known, and yes, I am including Veronica in that observation. She is particular to a fault, hates losing control, and she snores.”

Cassandra Pentaghast, in all her ironclad indifference, had one weakness: sincere affection. Whether she was the receiver of it, or the witness, mattered little. And, in Trevelyan’s words, it bled without hope of an end. Instant, and brutal in their potency. Her cheeks flinched, a grin wanting to form, but her defensiveness overrode it. She keeps her eyes away, fearing that contact with the Mage’s will only make her want to show more vulnerable joy. Finally, when the Mage stops her list, she has the floor again.

“So, is that all? Vices you find endearing. No merits, no…” she gestures with skepticism.

“Seeker, with respects, I could have died today. Permit me some room for artistic liberties.” She waves her hands in a mocking kind of way, and then returns them to her lap. “Ah, what was the question? I’ve forgotten.”

“Ugh.” Cassandra sat straight, eyes rolling with impatience.

“Oh! Why I love her. Hm.” She goes quiet, her head rocking from side to side. “I suppose you expect an honest answer?”

“Yes, and apparently I am reaching for the stars.”

A snicker, bit back and then swallowed. Trevelyan rolled her shoulders, as if such a response required physical dexterity. Then, at long last:

“Olivia...she...well, alright. In our group, everyone has a signature attribute. Veronica’s the pragmatist, Roslyn the fighter, Naomi the healer, and I the protector. We did not plan for such a dynamic, but, in hindsight it was helpful to our survival. Maybe it was also us rising to the occasion of what was needed of us.”

It was the most docile she had ever been or sounded in Cassandra’s presence, and only then was there a glimpse of what hid underneath the evasively hostile exterior.

“And…” she indulged, “and who was the Inquisitor, then?”

Theia smiled in earnest, her eyes closing briefly before landing on Cassandra. “Olivia...she was the visionary.”

A short response. One that threw Cassandra off, in a way.

“She…agh. I suppose it’s...it’s that when she looks at you, you feel like life is fruit ready for you to sink your teeth into. I loved her, and in my love for her, the feeling was real. Life was worth living and hoping for. When I felt as though my life was falling apart, and I was losing touch...she would be there to sit with me and remind me of all there was to look forward to. All that stood to be created if we just...kept trying.”

_I understand that feeling._

Cassandra’s guard crumbled: a noiseless conquest brought on by the sheer saturation in Trevelyan’s words. In Theia’s words. It was contagious, but it was an affliction she had known long before this night. Restless now in her seat, she leaned onto her lap again, hanging her head a bit lower than last time. Less guarded.

“So, there, Seeker,” she ended, leaning back with her hands planted on either side. “Does my mirror show the reflection you want? Or is it unrecognizable?”

A humble swallow, and stolen breath. “Both.”

“Both?” alert and surprised.

Cassandra let out a chuckle of concession as she pressed her fingers into the edge of her palm. “I am not a fool, Trevelyan. I will never know her as you have known her. To say your memories of her are familiar would be arrogant. But,” Cassandra countered as she stood up from her bench, “for as much as you knew her before the Conclave, I have known her in its aftermath. You will respect that, and my leadership, regardless of your personal judgments as to who I am and what my intentions might be. Is that clear?”

One last time, their eyes met. Pointed attitude matched with pointed attitude. The fact was, though, that the topic at hand had softened them both.

“Yes, Seeker,” Trevelyan admitted. “And this time, I mean it.”

“Good, because you would not have had the chance to prove it. Without my intervention, you would stand to be reprimanded for breaking with orders not to engage as you did today. Luckily for you, I am a warrior who does not punish what saves the lives of her men.”

“So, Sister Nightingale suddenly has wishes for me to stay alive and unharmed.” The Mage tilted her chin, a look of bitterness on her.

Cassandra frowned, and stepped to the side in preparation to walk away. “It was signed and handed down by the Spymaster, but make no mistake, Agent. It is not her own fury that she is trying to avoid should you fall.”

“Then...who?”

Cassandra grinned slightly, and shook her head. “You knew the woman, Trevelyan, but I have known the leader. She might be good at concealing her emotions, but not her authority. It has something she has fought to deserve, as we all must.”

Even with the implied competitiveness, they parted on easier terms than they had yet known. Trevelyan, smiling with a look of ‘touche’ and fatigue, was left alone to her fireside rest. Cassandra, on the other hand, found her tent and an excuse to retire for the night. Hopefully, that time around, it would not produce a second act of argument.

She had time for one last task.

19th Pluitanis, 9:42 Dragon

Inquisitor,

I am writing to you to confirm our safe travels this far. We have entered the mountains and hope the weather and roads will be clear for us. Your letter was greatly appreciated, even if I lack the ability to convey my regard for it. I am afraid you are not the only one who must make improvements upon expressing affection. I will try my best now, since I know we lack ample opportunity for practice.

Today, as we traveled up the first mountain, we stopped at an overlook. I rode my horse to the edge of it to look upon the range. It reminded me of that day you invited me riding back at Haven. For a moment, I wished I could have looked to my right side and see you, as much at home in your saddle as you are anywhere else. I could almost hear your voice.

If you say I carry a piece of you with me, it is in exchange for the piece of me you carry on your path.

Maker preserve you.


	75. So In Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor is compelled to retreat from the Emerald Graves after a development arises for their plans to attend the Winter Palace Ball. Midway through her journey with her allies, an interesting but much-needed encounter with Warden Blackwall further stirs nervous intuition. Last-minute letters quickly distract her with some much-needed emotional diversion, though.

An old, frayed piece of paper kept folded and locked away for years in the Inquisitor’s personal chest. Originally written in Orlesian but translated. A blotch on the lower left corner might be ink, but the faint scarlet tint of it suggests another source --

7th Nubulus, 9:32 Dragon

My Dearest Daughter,

I have sent this early but dated it so that it would truly commemorate this important day. Happiest of birthdays to you, my darling. Seventeen years, and you have grown into such a lovely young woman: full of intelligence and compassion, and beauty that matches the soul. These are rare qualities among the company we keep.

I wish you could write more thoroughly of your time at Ostwick, though perhaps it is for the better. For your sake, I hope that you have opportunities to show your peers and authorities just how remarkable you are. Your fluency, your artistic talents, your poise in good company.

It is with a heavy heart that I admit we cannot make arrangements for you to return to us for a visit. I know that we have promised to do so since you left us, but the restrictions in place are considerable. Nobility out of armed service is not the same as nobility out of familial, dynastic despotism. I can almost see you scrunching your nose, and mocking the people we used to observe at your Mother’s soirees, sauntering and snorting. I miss my fellow courtly critic.

Do write when and what you can. Spend your birthday encouraging silliness and jest, for these are resources that become rarer as you age. I suppose it would be custom for me to impart wisdom on this day. You must remember I was never very excellent at that, but, consider this secret between us an inheritance no law can intervene in:

If your choices ever render you feeling unworthy, know this: you alone have more bravery and conviction in your spirit than half the soldiers I have mentored, and it is for that reason I will always regret that I allowed your Mother to possess your future. A fine warrior you would have made. Your hands were meant for the sword, and not for a dagger concealed underneath a stocking; I should have said this, so I will write it now.

Regardless of how life has unfolded, you are still my daughter.

Sincerest wishes to you, my darling. Happy birthday, once again. 

Ser R. Sinclair

Imperial Officer  


An official letter from the offices of Ambassador Montilyet, Chief Inquisition Diplomat --

17th Pluitanis, 9:42 Dragon

Inquisitor,

We have received at long last a confirmation from Duke Gaspard de Chalons. He will invite and escort the Inquisition’s presence to the upcoming Ball at the Winter Palace. His style of response will be of interest to you, and we can discuss it in necessary detail in person. This is a most fortuitous piece of progress, but one that will take arduous dedication to prepare. You must complete your remaining responsibilities in the Dales and return as soon as possible.

It has been many years since you were last familiar with the Imperial Court, and any memory of the Orlesian daughter they may yet cling to must be rendered a ghost in comparison to the woman you are now. The Inquisitor, to be precise in my invocation.

Be safe and Maker guide you, Inquisitor. Your presence is missed.

Ambassador Montilyet

\--

There was a no-man’s land in her heart where wishing to leave and to stay became twin sensations. The Dales had held her in that limbo -- a restless grief that grew with every mile they went outside the Dales region, where green valley gave way to the Frostbacks’ outstretched limbs.

Ambassador Montilyet did not often make insistences on the Inquisitor’s presence like the one she made on account of the Duke. When they were abroad, Josephine did her best to do right by what was entrusted in her jurisdiction while Olivia was gone. However, the response from Gaspard was a long-sought-after carrot that had been dangling over their heads for months, ever since word started to get out that logistics of a summit were being discussed. Discussed, or threatened, depended on how you interpreted Orlesian manners.

Right before the first of several mountain passes -- the Spring season had opened up a new route for them to cut through, shaving days off of their journey back to Skyhold -- they stopped for camp where dense valley forests could still provide cover. It had been a beautiful route, but whereas their first trip to the Dales filled the air with wonder, the way back was less so.

Well, that was how she would account for it in her journal.

When dawn came on what mental math concluded to be the 29th day of Pluitanis, Olivia once again enacted her routine of being one of, if not the, first to rise from her cot. Or so she thought. Coming out of her tent, who else would be out in the grass but Warden Blackwall. Dressed in lighter gear than what he would wear for traveling or field hiking, he was all by his lonesome with the exception of his sword and shield. Practicing? For what?

Olivia buttoned up some more, a scarf tucked and covering her neck and chest in the v-neck of her coat. He hadn’t noticed her appear from her tent drape. After all, his back was to her as he rotated his blade in the air. Half-hearted and with no target.

“Warden, good morning,” she smiled during her approach, fingers tugging on one hem of her sleeve and then the other.

He flinched and returned her look with a stressed brow and tense, straight mouth. “Inquisitor, agh, my Lady,” he nodded fast, as if catching up. For whatever reason.

She folded her arms. “Getting some exercise? Even with the mission concluded. You’re putting me to shame.”

“I…” he chuckled breathlessly, gazing upon his sword. “My attempts at fitness inspire no lofty standard in comparison to yours, my Lady.”

“Oh, come now, I thought we said you’d call me by my name.”

More hesitant stuttering, low and injured in vanity. He grinned, though, and let his shoulders relax some. “You’ll have to grant me some patience, Inquisitor. It is not very often a woman of your stature invites a first-name sort of greeting.”

“Yes, well, I am quite petite.” Smug with self-deprecation, she took in the woodlands beyond where they stood. The fog was hugging close to the tree peaks still. A gentle frost danced across the bridge of her nose, which inhaled clean, crisp air. Ferelden was not far at all, anymore.

He left the silence alone for a moment longer. When it was enough, he tossed his shield to the ground with minimal fragility. “Inquisitor…”

“Yes?” she replied quick, side-eyeing him. An upturn in the corner of her mouth was not enough to disarm him in the face of her precision. He straightened up, chest out, as he struck the ground with his sword by his right hip.

“I…” he cleared his throat, “I wished to...well…”

“There’s no need. I made my choice, and it was my impulsivity to blame. You have no reason to apologize for being the target of our enemies any more so than the rest of us.”

Swiftly outspoken, she tilted her chin to him. The pain in his aged face was so fretful for so early in the morning. The sun had not even broken from the horizon yet, and he looked like a man who had come back from battle seeing every face he slaughtered. Haunted before the first break of bread.

“Blackwall,” she tilted her head sweetly, “what is the matter?”

He sent his gaze back to the mountains, jaw tucked. “Inquisitor...O-Olivia...it was my short-sightedness that failed to protect the both of us from what happened. With all due respect, I should have known better than to accept such a quick end to a skirmish. I have been trained better than that.”

“We both have,” she replied, invoking the history between them with only three words. “What is it you said to me at Haven? Battles are not finished, they merely fight for territory in our minds?”

He let out a ragged huff of air. “Maker’s breath. You allow me too much liberty for conversation.”

She giggled and pressed a hand to her arm. “I do not!”

“You do, if I was able to utter such an insufferable sentence and still keep company.” He was himself again, in a fleeting glimpse. Unfortunately, it vanished in his reformed posture, and the harmless coldness in his countenance. “Ah, forgive me, Inq--”

“Blackwall.” She turned her shoulders. “You need not apologize.”

He was looking, but not at her. Not to her. Slightly elevated, above her eye and brow. It took a second, but then it sunk in: she had been standing with her scar facing him. The scar, from which sutures were long-since-removed, was not receding into invisibility as promised. Hair had a hint of growth, but not over the wound’s rejoined tissue. Not yet -- or perhaps, never again. It resided on her flesh, but it was on his conscience. Her pain had long since ended, but his languished.

She shook her head once, slight so as to regain her focus. “Hey, at least now, the rumors of my prolific beauty are finally put to rest. I’m as ugly as all the righteous bastards out here.”

Struggling, but following along, he allowed a chuckle. Too brief, though. He needed to laugh. “You sound more Fereldan by the day, my Lady,” he commented, cranking his sword grip forward using the palm of his hand. “How that has come about, I am not entirely sure.”

“Perhaps I should offer myself as an inductee to the Fereldan Court, then, so that I may know for sure the authenticity of my adopted traits. Leliana would be so pleased.”

They shot glances, before cracking up. Her shoulders slouched forward in her joy, and her hips ached along with her ribs with the rigor. Cassandra was right – no part of her body was safe when something compelled her to laugh.

“Maker,” he settled down after a beat, “do not make the Ambassador’s job more difficult than it need be.”

Fair enough. “I must say, you are the first person to compare me to any other nation than my own. Everyone has told me this mission has made me the most obviously Orlesian than ever before.” She kicked her boot heel into the muddy ground below, while a bird took off from a tree and floated across the sky before them. Not a Raven, for once.

“Have they?” he replied, un-sticking his blade from the soil. “I wouldn’t see fit to agree.”

“Really?”

He shrugged with austerity. “You are as you always have been, my Lady. Decisive, honest, and compassionate to the circumstances you encounter. You might speak the tongue, but you are far above most every Orlesian patriot I have had the sordid fortune to know.”

His words were, in a most heartbreaking way, what she longed to hear from someone, anyone, for weeks. She had long resigned herself to the belief that she was far away from all the people who she could expect such sympathy. However, as Blackwall took his sword and angled it into the sheath hooked onto his belt, the peculiar feeling arose.

“You…speak with a good deal of authority on Orlesian character, for a Ferelden Warden.” It came out a bit harsher than what dwelled in the back of her throat. Perhaps that was why when she uttered her observation, the air grew almost hostile. Uncharted atmosphere for the two of them, except for the first time they ever met – and that was largely due to the combat involved.

He coughed a bit, following through with putting away his weapon. “I encountered Orlesian Wardens on more than one occasion,” he answered modestly. “Our collaboration was expected of us, among many things.”

Her brow lowered. When his side-stepping suggested a return to camp, she followed. “Wardens? Back at the Villa it was the Imperial Army you spoke of.”

“Yes,” he strained, keeping to himself more and more as the seconds ticked by. “Nosy bastards.”

“Is that right?” she chuckled softly, “my Father always acted as if it would take a cataclysm for the Army to be mobilized as it should have been.”

“Not every institution mirrors that philosophy, trust me.”

“I suppose you’re right, but, he was damn-near raised in the Army. He built himself from nothing, graduated from the Chevaliers, but kept in rank so that he may—”

“Inquisitor,” Blackwall halted out of the blue, turning to look her in the eye where she had only been slightly behind him. “Your Father…” he adjusted himself and his tone, ensuring he did not speak out of turn or with excessive aggression. That was to be appreciated in a man.

“…Yes? I’m sorry if I…hah,” she laughed a little, “I have been talking about it a lot, lately. The time around my birthday always seems to bring him back into existence, I’m afraid.” It was easy to put up a show of casual cheer. Nothing was more effortless than being what everyone expected from rumors: bubbly, fair, and devoted to the good humor of men. After weeks of the Graves dragging her spirits down into the earth along with the rest of the bones unnamed and unknown, it was just as much medicine for her as it was a habitual farce.

In Blackwall’s morose rejection of her exposition, her feelings risked new wounds.

“It is no trouble,” he said as he shifted his feet, angling himself towards where the tents and wagon were just up the path. “I just…have little to contribute to the conversation, is all. And I don’t wish to lead you to believe I am an authority on things I am anything but. If it is alright with you, I’d like to return to my tent and start packing for the road.”

“Oh. Well, alright. Far from my right to keep you from work,” she did her best to resurrect the good-natured report, but all he wanted was a way out. A polite escape, but an escape. With her blessing, he bowed his head and left her there, standing at the mouth of the campsite. Stirrings, and a couple Scouts returning from posts, but nothing remarkable besides their movements. All that was there to keep her company was the gnawing in her stomach, its source unknown and undecipherable to her from where she stood.

All men had their limits in good character. Blackwall might have just taken longer to disclose his. She had forgiven worse before, and she would forgive him with almost effortless regard. He deserved it.

\--

Pack up was nearing completion when an Agent resurfaced from their preliminary patrol of the trail. A courier’s dispatched pair of Ravens had carried two more letters for the Inquisitor’s eyes only. Neither were sealed with wax as they would be from her Advisors’ offices, nor were they marked with specific locations. Such clues usually denoted that they were composed during travel by personalities un-befitting formality.

There was little privacy to have with a cleaned camp and the party ready to get back on the road, but the Inquisitor stole away into the tree line. Just far enough to allow some discretion and keep a distant eye on things.

The first letter she opened, the smaller one, had writing she recognized like her own reflection.

  
20:2, 9:42

Inquisitor,

This is your friend, Theia. I wished to write to you, and hopefully this is not intercepted or deemed unimportant to you wherever you may be. I received your letter many days ago. To your words, I will respond with this: we have much to talk about next we see each other. I have many questions – some have since been answered – but most require your voice and no one else’s. I deserve nothing less after all that has happened.

Stay alive, please. I do not need more reason to be angry with you.  


Theia was simplistic in her writing; at times it was to a fault. Countless times at Ostwick Olivia had burst into the room demanding an apology for a letter passed on, only to find out she had completely misconstrued the message. Ironically, in Theia’s clearly conveyed hurt Olivia wished there was more room to speculate as to her true emotions. If she was hurt, and deeply so, Olivia could not blame her. Who could pass down judgment on a woman who had gone from fearing she caused her best friend’s demise, to possibly having to lose her all over again to fates she could not protect her from? Reliving a nightmare was a pain all-too-common for the Inquisitor – a pain she would not wish on anyone, least of all her best friend.

The one silver lining underneath it all was that Theia was willing to talk. That would have to tide things over where convenient ambiguity wouldn’t.

The next letter – Maker, this was the second time she had gotten their letters in pairs, it was too close for comfort – harbored less resentment. Though, it was exponentially more surprising. A letter – a romantic letter – from Cassandra. Besides a confirmation that they were in the mountains, nothing about it was professional --

_“For a moment, I wished I could have looked to my right side and see you, as much at home in your saddle as you are anywhere else. I could almost hear your voice.”_

It dripped with sentimentality, with devotion. No one could read it and be confused as to the depth and honesty of her point of view.

_Oh, my dearest one._

Her skin chilled in her cheeks as it was filled with unmistakable heat. With little more than a short love note, the first term of endearment made itself known in her head. Standing a few yards into the wild was no longer enough, she had to hide herself behind a bulky standing pine tree and lean against it.

The paper was clean for being written whilst on the road. Folded with attention and tied together tight even when it made it to her. Dated the 19th – ten days had passed. With good luck, they were at Skyhold, safe and sound.

What were they, less than a week from arriving at the gates? The mountains had been thawing but thawing promised floods and landslides as much as it did unblocked paths. A week, give or take, and they would be in the same place again. She clutched the letter flat to her stomach, her head up against the bark. Her vision blurred until her lids fell close. It had been real. They had fallen apart and come together right at the end of the line, at the last and most inconvenient moment before they were ripped from each other. Ripped by her own designs.

_Cassandra, if you could just appear out of the woods and insult me for keeping the caravan waiting, I would smile and burst into tears. I miss you and that is all I can think to say._

Prayers for the trees, to a mortal whom she was ready to be devoted to as any religion could indoctrinate. Maker, this was romance. Helpless, hapless, and senseless. Selfishly drowning in the unreal. An agonizing desire for that which was kept from you. Everything between you and the person you wanted was as grave an injustice as any worldly crime. She would spite them all: Samson, the Templars, Corypheus, with her indulgence. They would wait to consume the world, because she was to be consumed by irrevocable and glorious affection that which the world had never seen.

_Olivia, no, stop this. Stop it, stop it, stop it._

She knocked her head back against the trunk once, twice, thrice – five times it took before it hurt enough. A toe had sunk into the waters of surreal rapture and soaked under her skin. Impossible. She let out a hopeless sigh, a whine lacing the end of it. Examining the letter again, it had become the key to her undoing. A key she would adore and hold in contempt.

With a quickness she pressed it to her lips – she hadn’t the heart to be irreverent to Cassandra’s expended energies – and refolded it. It would go well tucked in her coat and under a riding vest. If an enemy were to attempt piercing her in the heart that day, they would have to go through Cassandra. Or, her words and traveling parchment. Good enough.

Returning to her people, her shoulders back and head held high, it was all she could do to save face. To neutralize the need for her to have stepped away. It was incredibly important that she pulled it off while walking past Bull and the Chargers, consummate interrogators of all things relating to bashful self-preservation. It was fine that she stole away, anyways. For goodness sake, It could have been a million possible reasons – she was the bloody Herald of bloody Andraste. Who was she to have to answer if anyone wanted to inquire, or guess, at what needed solitude?

Finding her horse at the front of the line, she checked her saddlebags one last time for appropriate fills of food and water. Footsteps behind her alerted her to a visitor. Just when she thought herself unscathed. 

“Are we ready to embark, your Worship?”

She grinned easily. “Yes, Solas. You can go on ahead, as always, if that is what you wish.”

Slamming down her bag lid and buckling it, she peered over at where his feet had landed. He looked…pleasant, almost. Was his sleep in the Fade particularly diverting? No immediate goodbye, no unceremonious departure. He just stood, like a friend.

“Yes?” she asked, confusion in her voice.

He grinned unevenly, lowering his head. “Do not concern yourself, Inquisitor. I was merely curious as to why the healer’s supplements for your injury were still resonating in their side effect.”

She blinked. “Side effect? What side effect?”

He let a chuckle flow from his throat and walked a few steps forward, past where she remained at her horse’s side. “A tint in one’s complexion, reminiscent of the certain degree of redness, as one might incur should they stand out in the sun for an extended period of time.”

_Oh. That smug, impossible, dreary…_

“I burn in the sun,” she spits back, annoyed like a child would be at being told their breeches were stained in an unsavory location.

He cocked a brow, and side-eyed her. “Indeed…so it see—”

“I also, as you must know, Solas, am rather competitive with the sun when it scorns me so. I get rather eager to show off my capabilities in burning. Its light may impress upon all faces, but my heat would look elsewhere.”

He angled his chin to her. “Oh?”

“Yes. Say, to the hind end of Apostate breeches.”

Solas coughed another chuckle, a bit more reserved. He shook his head once, then, and looked on to the horizon laid before them. “Your friendship with Sera shines brighter than both the sun and your attempts to mimic its prowess, Inquisitor.”

She bit back a smile as she yanked down her stirrup. “That it does, Solas. That it does.”

“I shall be off, then. I will be sure to touch base and inform as to any obstacles I see for us.”

“Good. I look forward to it.”

He nodded and was out on his merry way. In her salvation, she allowed herself to laugh, sliding her foot in the iron and pulling herself up into the saddle. At home there as she was anywhere else: a correct inference. During her last moments of gearing up, a Scout came from behind where the bulk of her men stood at the ready.

“Inquisitor, do you have a response for the communications we handed to you? If so, we should send them off before we move on.”

The Scout grimaced a bit, having to look at the Herald as she sat on her horse, eclipsing the sun that was still doing its best to ascend to the top of the sky. Kicking her horse to come around in a half-circle around the Scout, Olivia mulled the choice. It was no time to sit down and write a heartfelt love note, as much as her inner self craved it.

“No, no response, Agent. It will not be needed. I can give it when we land back at Skyhold. Allow the Ravens to return to Sister Nightingale with a little less weight on them, yes?”

The Scout smiled before leaving. Everyone was eager to venture back to the epicenter of their cause. The suspense had lived long enough – it was time to go home.


	76. Back To You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last returned to Skyhold in the middle of the night, the Inquisitor finds one reunion takes precedence above all others. I'll leave it at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Sex, discussion of previous sex work. EXPLICIT. HERE THERE BE SMUT.

The first poem in the only poetry book in the Inquisitor’s shelf, kept at her private office in Skyhold --

My soul yearns to hide and not return,

For the toil it has known has become too great.

I seek salvation in the ages as they pass you and me,

Granting every breathing thing a shared fate.

When the essence of you withers away,

I will not remember you in your perfect youth.

I will remember all the places you are awoken,

Bone and barren chest fragile in prayer.

My soul yearns to hide and not return,

Where it can find you through all the doors, divine.

Where you hide in the graves, embalmed and covered

By cobwebs which are death’s false harvesting vines.

I will remember the mercies you have broken,

Follies for which you forsake your pardoning hand.

Nothing of your innocence is worth holy sympathy

In comparison to the sins that hath made you man.  


\--

On the final day, they were chased by a storm coming up over the mountains. There was a decision to be made: race for Skyhold or stay put and weather it for however long it took for the roads to become decent enough for a large traveling procession of soldiers, scouts, and cavalry. Pushing on would mean they could not foresee what time of day they’d arrive, or if they could sufficiently outrun the rain and winds that were already beginning to spread by mid-morning. In spite of that, all it took for Olivia to decide was to look around and see the faces of her men tired after two weeks of travel but robust in their morale.

They would continue.

When the signal torch lit up on the battlement wall facing the gates, it was the middle of the night. Soon after the initial light, the torches lining the gateway promenade ignited row by row to welcome them. It was a short-lived illumination, as the trickling of invisible droplets surged into heavy rain. Unbothered given the state of things, the Inquisitor pulled off to the side and watched as her entire traveling party marched in, becoming drenched in the process.

So, this was Spring in the deep Frostbacks -- _how lovely._

People scrambled to unload so that shelter could be taken as soon as possible. She dismounted her horse, and with a simple pat on her neck let an overnight groom take her to the stables. The now seasoned Mare had earned a day or two of rest and hay at the very least. Back on her own feet, there was much to be done in order to progress the dispensation of cargo. On her order, the weapons were returned to the armory, and the gathered resources hauled in their own wagon to the post for the undercroft. First dibs so-to-speak. People yelled and waved arms to make up for the deafening blankets of rain, and even then, it all felt a bit sneaky. It was not the bright and celebratory return she had known multiple times before. Maybe that was a good thing.

Once completed in her management and assistance, Olivia raced up both sets of steps into the Hall where she found no one -- not even Varric resting by the fire -- to greet her. She was no one to protest, as she snuck through to the door leading to her chambers. Once behind it, she looked upon more stairs and gasped an exhale so deep and impatient it nearly brought her to her knees.

_Here. Safe and alive. Done._

The railing was still as cold and coarse as she remembered it under her sliding grip. About halfway, though, she stopped and looked back. The solitude, the privacy...its relief only went so far. Filing into the fortress in the cover of darkness was a romantic thought, but a lonesome reality. These torn desires were uncommon for her introverted self, which begged the question as to why she stopped hungering to go back behind her locked doors. Oh, who was she kidding -- she understood why. For the same reasons she egged her people to be faster than the storm.

Back through the Hall and another hallway, a less frequented one by her memory, she braved the rain again for the sake of finding the door she wanted. A modest, but sound one; not much to speak about, except for its sound lock mechanism. Shit, that was right: locked. That would ruin the surprise, having to knock like a hooligan wanting out of the storm. Oh well.

First knock, and nothing. Not even quaking of stone underneath heavy feet across the floor. Second knock, nothing. The third yielded the same result. Come on, she wasn’t that deep of a sleeper. For her own self-pity Olivia checked the knob, which was as she expected: locked. She should be more careful about what she wished for. Huddling her arms against her chest as she walked back in defeat, she counted all the reasons why the situation was preferable to storming in and collapsing on top of her. For one, she could bathe and make herself presentable. Secondly, sleep. Third, maybe it was best to wait if Cassandra was out on patrol or night watch. Maker, she would be the woman to be out on watch when she got in. She was when she left the blasted fortress, after all. The Seeker was nothing if not consistent in her spent time. Fine, fine -- a bath did sound good, anyway.

Back through the throne hall and up the stairs she went, marching like she was sent to bed by a petulant governess, a slight tremble in her muscles from the cold. Her mood shifted when she reached the last step, and the line of space beneath her door and the floor caught her eye. There was light coming through -- shadowed, but there. At this hour? Coming in, the fireplace was still going. It was the only light but brighter than almost every candle she could light in the room. Refreshed recently, then. Reaching the main floor, it registered first as a hospitable kindness: Josephine or even Leliana could have ordered it to be stoked to welcome her back. That would be something they’d do.

Her belt complete with knives and buckled pocket was left draped over the stair rail as she went by. Her shoulders were like iced stone beneath her half-assed massaging as she approached the couches. Nothing was going to get her knots out but a swift punch or getting trampled by a carriage horse. Closing her eyes to the dull pain, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Re-opening, she came to the side of the long, large couch facing the fire, her instincts vindicated.

“Cassandra,” she mouthed, faint and almost lucid. Her arms fell to her sides, and the aches faded. In that moment she wished she would have sent her a dozen -- no, a hundred letters. They would begin psychically with how beautiful she looked asleep on furniture, dressed in pants and a sleeping shirt slightly oversized and loosely tied in the front. Rustled and disheveled in the best of ways, from her feet to her braid down on her shoulder. One hand on her chosen reading material, the other resting between the back of her head and the throw pillow. Her face towards the fire’s warmth, the deep olive hue of her skin all -the-more breath-taking Everything about her, as she remembered and romanticized, there with nothing standing in the way. No mountains, no roads, no rivers. Just a rug she was soaking underneath her boots and dripping hair sticking out of her hood.

Olivia closed in, slowly and carefully sliding books and candles off to the side on the coffee table. She sat down on the freed-up edge, but no...it wasn’t close enough. Wincing, she knelt on to her knee and skirted herself to her side, face-to-face if not a bit lower than eye-level. For as rapturing as the sight of her sleeping soundly was, Olivia was a selfish person. She reached her hand with the expectation that Cassandra would detect presence and lurch up, ready to fight. Gentle, and ever-so-slight, her fingers grazed up the angle of her cheekbone. Cassandra, in turn, inhaled sharply through her nose which made her withdraw her touch in a snap. To her surprise, it was an overreaction: Cassandra only opened her eyes, and nothing else. Had she felt safe here, safe enough even in her slumber? Goodness, she better.

She blinked once, her hazel irises blurred and honeyed. The kind of look you had when you were stumbling through a dream too good to be true. Then, her lips parted.

“Maker, it is you…” she let out with a hoarse but desirous breath. “Is it..”

Olivia smiled and leaned forward, as if to confide a secret. “Yes, I promise. It’s me.”

Cassandra slid her arm out from underneath her head, and reached for her face, her thumb brushing against her jaw. “Did you ride in the storm?”

“We managed to outrun it until we got to the gates. This is after about ten minutes of unloading. Well...and five at your door.”

The excitement in her face fell. “You...you went to my quarters first?” goodness, her sleeping voice was something to become drunk on.

“Yes,” Olivia smirked, “apparently great minds think alike.” She placed her hand atop Cassandra’s and pressed. “Here I was, wondering if it was all real. I thought you…” she chuckled a little, “I thought I could come back, and you would be bossing and scolding me like you do, all of it a dream...some kind of--”

Her carrying on was cut off, as Cassandra leaned in for an immediate, sobering kiss. A kiss that rivaled the peak of their embrace that first night they shared together. Olivia was without a prayer, even for a non-believer, rising off her knees and over her. It wasn’t enough for Cassandra, which she made clear when she reached and pulled the rest of her by her belt in one fist’s worth of grip, sliding her up and on top of her. Olivia let out a surprised sound but didn’t fight it. Hours of being in the saddle were a distant memory when given the opportunity to straddle Cassandra’s hips.

Their breathing grew expedient and rough, their mouths open and ravenous. A bit clumsy, too, still figuring out their rhythm. For all their rough edges, kissing her was an almighty thing: so good, even in its raw and unpoised clamoring, she couldn’t give a damn about choreography. The Seeker’s ambitious hands kept going with their agenda, searching up until they gripped on the rim of her hood. Oh no. Olivia froze and clasped her hands over her lover’s, stopping her dead. Breaking their kiss, she fluttered her eyes, looking for somewhere for her mind and its fretfulness to steal away.

“W-what is it?” Cassandra composed herself, or tried to, her chest raising and steadying. “What is wrong?”

Olivia’s brows pressed together, and she removed Cassandra’s hold. “Look, something...happened.”

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “What is it?”

Sod it. Olivia was too starved for everything Cassandra stood to give. It wasn’t worth it, starting the litany of parental issues, identity crises, and meditations on why the scar bothered the shit out of her. For once, she would give into the situation and let the cards fall how they wished. Pulling back her hood until it was all there for the world to see: her side-braid of wet hair on her right shoulder, tucked into her collar. On her left temple, the bald spot as she had come to refer to it in her private thoughts. She then anchored her weight on either side of Cassandra’s torso as she awaited the verdict.

But...she only looked at her, the rest of her expression in limbo, as if something else was supposed to happen.

“You...have a new scar.” Confused, one might say even unimpressed.

“Yes…” Olivia muttered, chin tucking against her neck. “They had to shave for it.”

Cassandra pressed her thumb to Olivia’s chin, hooking her index finger under it as she tilted her head to the side. Getting a better look at it, which made Olivia frown but comply as she stared off into the fire. Every second felt like an eternity.

“Are you alright, otherwise?” she asked at last, releasing her hold.

“Yes. I mean, besides the other pesky injuries and scars. I’m in one piece, just...with less hair…”

Cassandra’s straight lips ticked up at the edges, and she held Olivia’s shoulder. “Were you scared of showing me?”

“Um…” Olivia looked from side-to-side. Cassandra’s direct stare so close was hard to evade, and to feel confident in saving face. “I don’t know. I have always looked a certain way, my whole life; this was not something I had planned…though I should have known better.”

Her grin grew. “I am the wrong woman to look to for finding offense in battle scars, Olivia.”

“Oh…you, you have a point.” Olivia blushed so deep it nearly broke a sweat, and it only worsened when Cassandra lifted herself up to press her lips to where the scar and short hair; never in her short but tumultuous tenure as Inquisitor would Olivia ever have expected the Seeker to dole out such tender affection. Yet there she was, quite literally kissing away her wound and its deprecating hold on her. Her own form of dispelling, if she were to get particularly artistic in description. The sweetest part was that she said her name, on top of it all. How long had it been?

Olivia’s lungs ran out of air and collapsed into her embrace. Soaked to the bone, tired, disenchanted -- none of it was of consequence anymore. With Cassandra’s arm around her waist, and the other laying a hand on the back of her head, she could only be euphoric. Laying down her cheek against Cassandra’s shoulder, they fell back onto the couch for a moment’s peace.

“Are you okay?” she asked in return, remembering that the Seeker, too, had been abroad and endangered.

“Hm,” Cassandra hummed, “as you said, in one piece, and grateful.”

“And the mission was beneficial to you? Even with Theia? I know it was not the most ideal, but all things considered it did us some good. Well, good, maybe for some reasons. I mean, these things cannot be organized to perfection. Next time I should just--”

“Olivia,” Cassandra’s chin went into her hair, with a subtle whistle of an inhale. “You still babble, after all this time.”

“Cassandra, it…” her stomach fluttered, “it has been...hard. Forgive me if my mind lapses into nervous habits, I know not the full grace of my personality.”

“I know.”

“You...you do?”

Cassandra pulled her tighter. “Your wound is not the only thing clear in the face you wear. You need not explain it to me, just because I was not there to do it alongside you.”

The flush of vindication. All in one swing of thought, the nerves and limits of her insecurities revived themselves. Olivia creased her brow and sat up, back straightening under the weight of her drenched clothes. She started on her waist belt, her movements slow and thoughtful as she unbuckled. Cassandra’s acceptance of the situation melted into more uncertainty. As her shoulders shook loose of her vest before she tossed it to the ground, she spoke again.

“I did wish to respond to your letter. The one you sent last.”

“...Oh? When I received no response, I thought th--”

“I wanted to say this in person.”

The Seeker stilled further, but Olivia was determined. Undoing the laces on her underlayer shirt, she swallowed down what bashfulness she could. She owed it to her, for her being nothing but empathetic.

“That night...the night we had, before I left. When I asked for us to stop. I should have been honest. I was scared that you would not want me when I exposed every inch of myself to you. Everyone talks like I’m an exhibitionist, and perhaps they are right, but the truth is, you make it difficult. Not...not in a bad way, just...it is harder for me to...t-to...”

The brittleness of sorrow in her vulnerability stopped her from finishing her speech, the one she had taken care to rehearse in her mind all the while riding, or hiking, or commanding her men. She so badly resented the idea of being a calloused mistress, an unaffected lover who never cared about the people she embraced. That wasn’t the source of dysfunction.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed as she was listening. With soft regard she took Olivia’s hands into hers, stopping her progression of de-clothing. “Olivia, if you had not asked to stop, I would have.”

The world froze, as did she in the wake of that subtle but substantial confession. “What?”

“I was not…ready. It wasn’t that I did not enjoy it. It was that...I am not familiar with the ways in which women gratify each other. I was intimidated knowing you had experiences I did not. It clouded my judgment.”

It all had to have been a dream. Maybe she had fallen off her horse on the way through the storm. Unconscious and lost in a surreal episode all along. That would have made more sense, except for the fact that Olivia was never unseated from her saddle only to fall poorly. She knew better…sometimes.

“You...you mean that?” still skeptical.

“Would I confess to something like that for fun?” Cassandra retorted, a bit of humor in her.

Olivia shook her head and slouched in her seat. “So, we are both terrified of being insufficient. What ridiculous heroes we are,” she relented, hand rubbing the side of her neck as she had when she first entered her chambers. “I feel like a…a…”

“An impractical, foolish woman for acting as if—”

“…as if we would have another chance to try again, as if the lives we lived—”

“were different. Safer, and with predictable futures.”

Stars could have crumbled down from the sky, rivaling the rain, and she wouldn’t have cared one second. Half of her body was near-stinging from the fire heat, the other shrunk in frigidity. A half-drowned adventurer with mud on the soles of her boots likely tracked on the furniture, and the woman she sat on top of.

“Ugh,” she fell back down again, face-down into Cassandra’s collar bone and the pillow cushion it rested on. A reaction for which the Seeker jolted a bit, but nevertheless re-welcomed the proximity.

A warm, soft laugh. “Obviously, you are committed to dousing me mercilessly as you were outside.”

“I am embarrassed, leave me to rot like forest moss,” muffled into her skin, but emphatic.

“Embarrassing behavior has hardly impeded you in the past.”

A groan, matching the thunder echoing through the roof and locked balcony doors. “What generous clemency, Pentaghast; I see your increased sentimentality was only in the written form.”

Another, fainter chuckle, paired with wandering hands. This time they had a more care-giving purpose, sliding flat under the collar of Olivia’s underlayer, pushing it back down off her shoulders. Her exposed skin shivered initially, but the warmth of Cassandra’s touch made up for the lost insulation. She straightened her arms back behind her, making it easier for Cassandra to remove the shirt completely. A sound of linen hitting the rug, and nothing more – well, except for her smallclothes around her chest, which were also damp. Where rain could not saturate, sweat did.

She stopped. “May I?”

Olivia’s heart flurried in pace, but she wasn’t complaining. “May you what?”

A beat of nervous air. “May I…touch you.”

“Oh. Yes, just…careful. My back is tight from the journey.”

Fingers – long, devoted in their pace – traveled up her sides and then the small of her back. Over every scar, every bruise yet to completely heal. She peeked her face out from its hiding place, her forehead going against the side of Cassandra’s neck, and resting there. As touch came between her smalls and her flesh, her spine arched a little. It was an easy sell, this sensation and what it precluded. But if anything, she was seduced by the manner in which Cassandra had accessed it, which is why in her defenseless surrender to it, Olivia’s thoughts found it easier to be spoken into reality.

“Make love to me?” a beseeching whisper. Her ear against Cassandra’s skin picked up a subtle quickening of beats. Heartbeats. The rest of her went quiet, and her hands stopped advancing.

“Are you not exhausted?” her tone was lighter. More the woman, than the warrior.

Olivia groaned some more, the bridge of her nose nuzzling against Cassandra’s neck. An ache reemerged in her back. “I am…many things.”

“I see, and what of your back?”

“Do not pretend I am not persua…” her line of thought vanished as Cassandra’s hands added sudden pressure. Methodical pressure, rolling along the sides of her backbone. “…persuasive. Dammit,” she braced against her as the combination of pain and release fought for dominance. Maybe she wouldn’t need a trampling after all.

“It is hard to accomplish persuasion when you cannot say the word in one breath.”

More rubbing. Dammit. Damn it all, the woman was good. “You…you, agh, merde,” her face receded into the pillow more as a moan sounded, “you did not tell me you had talents in…ow…”

“Allow me to explain, then.”

Smooth, coming from the person who believed punches were completely fair game as responses in everyday conversation. Even in the agony her hands caused there was relief of the most unprecedented kind. Olivia winced but then melted, time after time, against her. A minute, maybe two, and she was little more than dead-weight. The good kind. She moaned only once more, before going stone-cold quiet.

“Maker, can you actually sleep like this?” Cassandra mumbled as she peered down her nose. Olivia opened her eyes – her reluctant, hostile-to-consciousness eyes.

“Sleep? I could die like this,” she muttered, nearly incoherent, but truthful. “Where am I? Cumberland?”

“Oh, please.”

“Shhh, Je renais…” she slurred the last syllable into a moan and sunk her mouth back against Cassandra’s neck.

“Ugh,” Cassandra adjusted her position, but not daring to forsake their hold. “You are still wearing wet clothes, and this is not exactly ideal after a day of being in the sad—”

“Mmm,” Olivia’s hand slid up until her fingers pressed against Cassandra’s lips. “all easily-solved problems, dearest one.”

There it was again. Only, it had an audience that wasn’t just a few trees and a fallen log. Goodness, she must have really been tired for such an implicating verbiage to escape her mouth. Part of her said to peek at the look on her face, while another said hide and prepare for the refutation. She chose to act calm, like it was any other casual piece of conversation.

“What did you just say?”

Olivia kept still. “Um…I said it could be easily sol—”

“No, not that. The end. You said…”

“I said…” she wanted to walk it back, to understate it. Save face. But, the gift of it all: the letters, coming back to find her sleeping in her quarters, the way she kissed her to quell her doubts. An endearment uttered once was such a piece meal in the shadow of her actions.

“I said dearest one,” she glided her hand up her chest, underneath the thin sleeping shirt she wore. “That is, if it is alright with you to say it.”

It was a toss-up as to whether the silence’s suspense was due to Olivia’s anxiety or the objective transpiring of events. Cassandra reached an arm up beyond Olivia’s body, and in one resolute pull she brought the fleece throw blanket folded atop the back of the couch. Olivia extended her legs back across the end of the couch, exerting all her weight onto her. Inch for inch either sunk in, or touching. As Cassandra unfolded the blanket above them her knees spread out and around her thighs, giving her room.

It was nice and heavy. Perfect. Olivia settled, covered and tucked in, still holding onto Cassandra’s rib cage. Meanwhile, Cassandra kept one arm above the blanket and across Olivia’s back, the other returning to the warmth of being pinned between her head and her pillow.

“I…I do not want to keep you here if…” the Inquisitor struggled to fend off slumber.

“Sleep, Olivia,” a decisive response. “I am not going anywhere, nor do I wish to.”

Olivia let it overtake her. Nothing would rob her of having that single sentence be the last thing she was faced with that night. Absolutely nothing.

\--

For the few hours she did sleep, it was a heavy rest, one which became clear when she awoke in her bed rather than on the couch using Cassandra as one. No memory of being carried came to her. The rest of her clothes had been removed as well, though parting with what her traditional response would be, she was at ease with it. It helped that, rather than completely nude, she had been dressed in one of her own night shirts, tied well at the front and clean. Fresh smelling. The fire still burned, and from the lack of tormenting ruckus, the storm was tiring outside.

Awaking on her side facing the wall where her dresser and vanity were, the weight of an arm hooked around her waist assured her fears. She had not left. Her promise was kept. She fell onto her back, doing her best not to disturb. However, when she did, the sight alone was a temptation for the best kind of restlessness. Once again asleep, Cassandra laid too on her side. Even her resting face had a degree of stoic reverence. Just as how she remembered.

Conducting the same manners that the woman she cared for did with the utmost honor, Olivia let her hand wander into Cassandra’s hair with the intention of waking her up. Twice a selfish woman. A groan, and squirm of her head and shoulders. “You're safe…” she muttered, as reflexive sounding as a yawn. Heartbreaking.

“Cassandra, I’m not scared,” she comforted, before her lips went to the valley of her cheek beneath her eye and near her nose.

Her eyes blinked open a bit, and she breathed out low through her nose. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. I’m just a fool.”

A pointed look marked by a furrowed brow and clearing eyes. “Hm?”

It was a brave thing to speak your mind the realities you felt belonged in the marginalia of action: brutal honesty rather than mystique. People thought the romance of life polished the splintered edges of intimacy, but the truth was that authentic regard was found in clarity and not seamless ambiguity. Olivia didn’t fall nearly as hard for the temporal moments of ease between then – the few there had been – as much as she did when Cassandra requested permission to know her in ways others had not.

She swallowed, her tongue dried from sleeping. She took hold of Cassandra’s waist, and pressed the side of her nose against hers.

“Are you not yet ready?”

Cassandra’s eyes grew more open, and she rolled her lip. “I…have contemplated it a great deal in our separation.”

A crooked, lazy grin. “You mean you thought of me?”

“No…not…I did not mean it like that.”

Olivia cocked a brow. “What is wrong with that?” 

“Sweet Maker,” Cassandra breathed, rolling flat onto her back and pressing the back of her hand against her eyes, rubbing. “Nothing, it is just…” she ended there, eyeing the ceiling.

“It is just…?”

“Oh…I…forgive me, I supposed I expected you to interrupt.”

“Oh, really?” Olivia played, scooting up to rest her chin on the crook of Cassandra’s shoulder. “Is that how it goes with me, then?”

Another frustrated, guttural noise. “I am terrible at this. And you are terrible at staying asleep.”

It was all well and good to joke, but it was worrying how instinctive Cassandra’s allowance of an interruption was. Maybe Olivia had not improved her listening skills since becoming Inquisitor. Or, maybe arguing had laced too much of their communication style. Whatever it was, it was not useful for this specific goal.

“Cassandra, I want you.” She moved her lips unto her neck and kissed, tired hot air washing her skin. “If is expectation we both fear then we must treat it like our enemy.”

Cassandra’s head tilted back and into her touch. “And…and what does that entail?”

Olivia grinned, and grated her teeth against her. “We must learn it.” Her grin gave way to a smile when Cassandra slanted herself away and put a hand on Olivia’s arm, so that their gazes could meet again. “Teach me,” she added, planting kisses on the rim of her jaw. “Like those talks of history we used to do.”

One last look at each other, and persuasion had redeemed itself as a tool of Olivia’s arsenal. Their lips reunited, and she was careful not to do as she always did and climb atop, take control, and get to the bottom of things. Such habits were part of the grain in her spirit, although for Cassandra she would try her best to make an exception. Instead, she stayed closer to her, leaning over her but at her side as her hand held her face amidst their kissing.

Really, she could have lay there and practiced kissing for hours and be grateful. If it weren’t for Cassandra’s increasing passion and gripping of her back, she might have left well enough alone – but there was something encouraging in those moves that egged her on. Competition, almost, as what was always so quick to spark between them. It was all she could to take her time, and not hold up her end of it: a hand sliding and almost sculpting her, from the underside of her ribs down to Cassandra’s hips.

But, then, as she bent her thigh up against Olivia’s touch, Cassandra moaned – low, and discrete in the middle of her kiss – but she did moan. And it was amazing to feel reverberate against her mouth. The messiness, the wetness, the complete discord of needs, and the scintillating sensation of her moaning. The stakes were raised. Olivia wanted more, so much more of her. She brought her own leg and parted Cassandra’s with it and began to bluntly and slowly grind against her center with its weight.

“Harder,” Cassandra breathed, breaking away for just the sake of the word. And that word was Olivia’s command. Harder, and deeper, so much so that Cassandra gripped onto her with her leg and allowed herself to rock with her. Rather than rejoin their mouths Olivia hovered above her, breathing air between them. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, it was everything. Stirrings in her own core sparked themselves.

Cassandra closed her eyes and titled her head back, exposing territory for Olivia to get lost in. She kissed her neck again, trailing with deep and lingering impressions down to the middle of her throat. Its vibrations hinted at hums and breaths of pleasure, but she went lower – onto the shallow valley of her chest bone, where her tongue embraced her. The tunic ties did not last long. By all the things that existed in the world, her form was captivating as any landscape or city designed. The imperfections and the wholesomeness. Her heart was beating at a breakneck pace against her, and her own heart fluttered at the recognition of it.

She withdrew her thigh, a move clearly disagreed with, as Cassandra tangled her fingers into Olivia’s hair and rolled against her weight to replace the rhythm. Olivia made it all the way down to the lower middle of her breasts, the top arch of her rib cage, before taking a detour onto one of them. But just as she was about to take it into her mouth, a rigid brace.

“No,” Cassandra said, “keep going.”

Olivia grinned, watching with all the respectful allure she could – it wasn’t exactly her realm of expertise, this instructively erotic siren – but she followed. Restoring her kisses, she fell back onto her bending legs, her hands cusping either side of Cassandra’s waist as the pressed into her diaphragm. That rewarded her with a half-breath and a curse, cut short as she quaked beneath Olivia’s weight.

When she reached the center of her abdomen she paused. “Do you want me to…”

“No,” Cassandra replied knowingly, “no, I want…you.” She took hold of her arm again and guided her forcefully back up to her, and she went back to laying half over her, half on the bed with her stomach and chest. Cassandra then kissed her again, open and with shy but willing tongue.

A minute more of it and Olivia let her hand wander to where she ultimately wished to go, cupping her there and pressing against it to mimic the weight of her. Cassandra braced again, and Olivia peeked as they kissed to see that her eyes were closed hard, worried. She kept them moving together with a loving cadence and parted her lips one more time.

“Hold my hand,” she said faintly. She wasted no time finding intertwining her fingers with hers using her spare hand.

Cassandra blinked, confused and exasperated. “W-what?”

“Hold my hand,” she repeated, her eyes nearly closed, “just trust me. If you think, just think of your hand in mine. That is all there is.”

She was reluctant but went along. It was the only demand she would make on her while it was her turn to be serviced. With their grip locked tight, Olivia kissed her again, and kept kissing her. Deep and consuming, while below her, her hand sought its entrance. Maker, she was wet – more than she expected. Under her touch, Cassandra’s initial pang of stiff muscles merely encouraged her to keep moving with her fingers. Slow, and all-encompassing. Indirect and indulgent.

Another moan. Louder, but still low. Her hand in hers strengthened, while the other cradled her ribs and clenched with nails. It sent a shiver up Olivia’s back, and she kept going. She could break her hand for all she cared. 

Faster, and more specific, and the heat between them was gloriously overwhelming. Cassandra called for a couple adjustments amidst their kisses – a lower, a faster, a slower, all directions Olivia followed to the letter. Sweat broke on her shoulders and her temples, but it only made it better. Throughout it all, neither let go of the other’s hand, as their hold rested just above Cassandra’s head on her pillow.

But, in a cathartic sort of way, the starvation for touch showed in them both. When Cassandra neared climax, all Olivia needed to do was open herself up to being held onto. Cassandra hooked her forearm along her shoulder blade and broke their kiss, opting instead to hide her mouth against her shoulder. Her voice escaped her more, in increasingly short and desperate moans. It was getting so immense, the build up of it all, that Olivia felt sympathy euphoria in her own core. What would it be like to hear her? To feel her, to know her that way?

The answer was wonderful.

With a couple selective circles of paired fingers Cassandra broke down, tightening around her as only one experience compelled a body to do. Their enjoined hands were so heavily gripped – or, rather, Olivia’s was – that the sound of a cracking knuckle hit her ears.

Cassandra’s voice cracked, trailing off. Her lungs gasped for air with modest endurance. When her body relaxed back into the bedsheets Olivia fell with her, labored as well, but it was a simpler transition into the afterglow for her than it was for her lover. Having mercy on her, Olivia let her hand go, propping up her head so she could take her all in. Maybe grin with a bit of smugness, too.

At that, Cassandra shot her a look out her periphery. “Wh—what happened to not letting go?”

“I haven’t.”

A pause, but then an eye roll as Cassandra did her best to compose herself. Her forehead glistened, as did her collar bones. Beautiful.

“Mmm,” Olivia moaned, retrieving her hand and slicking it along the bedsheets as she brought it back up to the surface. Something told her tasting the fruits of her labor was not a stage Cassandra was ready to watch with her recovering pulse. “Thoughts?”

Cassandra sighed heavily and closed her eyes slowly. “Scattered.”

Olivia chuckled, and pressed her lips to the skin in front of Cassandra’s ear. “Good.”

“That was…it…” she struggled, “it was not what I expected.”

Her heart sank a bit for the sake of preemptive nerves. “Oh? What was different?”

Cassandra swallowed, a click on her tongue when her mouth opened to speak. “I…I feared…”

She didn’t have to say it. Olivia knew, because Olivia understood. She had been there, once. A lifetime ago. The fear that there was something missing. Instead of making her finish her confession, Olivia settled in against her, hand on her chest as she trailed paths of sweat at her fingertips. “It helps to be able to say what you want.”

“I always believed…” her breathing began to finally quiet, “I thought it would never be like the unspoken understanding between…” she stopped, her hand wrapping around Olivia’s shoulders.

Olivia grinned, and propped her chin up on her chest. “Cassandra, the best intimacies are anything but unspoken. There’s nothing inadequate about learning from someone else, just because people prepared you for one type of love and called it all there was.” She caressed the side of her face, guiding her to connect their gazes. Cassandra’s eyes were awash in revelation, and it was both humbling and relatable.

“You are addictive.”

Cassandra’s blush lingered. “And you are rather merciful, when you wish to be.”

Olivia snickered. “When one is deserving.”

They stared into each other then, and whereas she had advocated that the unspoken was overrated, something about the way it felt to do so without words or laughter seeped into the depths of her soul with its profundity. Her smile fell, but not out of sadness.

“Olivia, I…” Cassandra broached, her hold on her pressing, “may I…”

She furrowed a brow. “What?”

“…Agh,” she grew more bashful, “I do not know how to say it.”

A slight smile, her tongue pressing between her top and bottom teeth. “You have to use your words, my dear.” Oh, Maker be damned, two endearments now. Her trickster reputation was eroding quicker than she could blink.

At last, Cassandra took a deep breath, and was out with it. “Can I feel you?”

Olivia raised her brows, abrupt in her reaction. “Oh, I…yes. Um, how would…”

Cassandra took control to answer that question, pushing up off the bed. Olivia slid over onto her back, making her the one to know the embrace of the sheets beneath them. She became rigid, like a cat being forced to land elsewhere besides its feet, and her eyes went wide. This was not her…particular…position of choice.

Cassandra laid on her side, looking down at her and sliding a hand across her abdomen as she pressed herself against her at every inch she could. Her eyes on her, because of course they were, but it was unhelpful. With the spread of her touch Olivia only grew more hardened, and not the preferable kind.

“Is this alright?”

“Yes,” Olivia exhaled tense, closing her eyes, “mhm.”

Cassandra stared at her. “Olivia, open your eyes.”

She had no clue it was that obvious. She opened them and saw her staring some more. “Hm?”

“Do you…not like being here?”

“Here? No, I love being here with you.”

Cassandra shook her head. “I did not mean here in this room. I meant here, in this way.”

_No. I don’t. But I don’t want you thinking me some bruised former woman of the night with a reason for why she always needs to upper hand._

“I recommend you use your words,” Cassandra offered as harmless rhetorical score-keeping.

Olivia looked away and sighed, thumb going to her forehead and rubbing across the length of it. Slippery from perspiration. “I…have a difficult time giving up control like this. It is not often I allow someone to…to just lay me out. It feels like I am a serving platter.”

Cassandra raised a brow. “Esteemed appraisal for a position you just held me to.”

“Agh! I am sorry,” she shook her head hurriedly, “it’s not that I think it demeaning, it is just…it’s…”

“Olivia,” Cassandra comforted, pressing her forehead to hers. “Do you believe I wish to hurt you?”

Her thoughts died, along with her scattered energies. There was but one focus.

“…No.” _I believe it, but it's not the prospect of hurting. I’m no stranger to pain. It’s betrayal, it’s…it’s being outsmarted. Orlesian women don’t mistake, they master…_

Cassandra’s hand went to her stomach. Lower, and lower, but cautious. “Can you be pleased like this? Tell me the truth.”

_I don’t know._ “Just…just…” she squirmed a bit, restless but not wanting to ruin things. “Just look at me, okay? Look at me here, nowhere else. That is all I ask.”

Cassandra listened, and kept her face to hers as her touch sank lower. When her fingers spread her open it was like being thrown into the deep end of pooled, ice water. Her vision blurred. It had been so long, so long to wonder what it would be to have her doing this. All those provisional nights alone in the Dales, all those insufficient bursts of blowing off steam. Nothing compared, even in her subliminal fright. She bit her lip and released tense air through her nostrils and managed to hold onto the back of Cassandra’s neck. Her fingers, they were just…stroking. Feeling her and what it was to have someone aroused. And she was so far gone. A sensitive part made her flinch, and she smirked with dread.

“Not there,” she advised between breaths, “to the right.” She opened her eyes and Cassandra was watching her mouth. Bless her, she was trying, and the sincerity in her hesitance quelled the limitless defenses Olivia could deploy.

“Mm,” she hummed, and their foreheads touched again. “Yes, that,” her hips were spreading, opening more. Her back muscles that had cringed were not bracing with climbing stimulation. She was going slow, but shallow. Wistful. Nerves fired and simmered, and Olivia placed her hand on the side of Cassandra’s head.

Again, she asked. “Make love to me, please.”

Cassandra peered up, and witnessed the honest permission granted. Olivia didn’t just want to be pleasured, though learning it mattered a great deal. She wanted what Cassandra was always the braver one to insist: she wanted to be carried away, to be trusted and bestowing of trust. She wanted to know what it was like to be loved by someone who saw it as their creative privilege to do so. 

The first thing Cassandra did was kiss her, but it was light, and drifting at the start. She was hungrier than that, but Cassandra had other plans – namely, wandering down her neck, where she was just as sickly sweet. Her fingers pressed deeper into her, and Olivia arched her back up off the bed and into her. No curse could properly line the way Cassandra’s muscles on her back felt to hold onto – years of being a warrior, with all its scars and tone. It riled her up and made her cling her nails into her skin. More. Deeper. Closer.

“Please…” she gasped again, rolling her head back. Cassandra’s pace quickened, cutting her inhalation short. The next moment Olivia opened her eyes Cassandra had fully rolled on top of her, their hips parallel with each other. “Please, more…” breathless but with a mighty need. A shrill moan left her chest as she coiled her legs around her. “Yes…oh, yes,” she bent into her, open and for the taking. Cassandra traced her mouth up her neck, along her chin and kissed her.

The rocking – the back and forth, the rise and fall. When she dared to buck her hips into her touch, she had to reach onto the rim of the headboard. Time and desolation had made a fool of Olivia’s needs, but this wasn’t just the result of a lust famine. It was Cassandra, learning and then doing, and doing it well. Making good on the vulnerability Olivia was giving while she echoed her noises from her throat into hers. Noises that were growing nearly incessant. She was close. Teetering on the edge. One more reckless movement, a lapse in muscle, a heavier thrust, and it would be over.

“Cassandra, please,” their noses side-by-side. “please, let me show you…”

Burning. Slight smoke. Her hold on the headboard had turned into potential kindling. Neither of them cared, though. Well, Cassandra certainly didn’t, because all there was between them. Olivia wanted to say it, to say what she meant, but damn it was getting too much.

And then, release.

Her spine coiled, her core walls becoming a vise for Cassandra’s hand that stopped but pressed down. She came and let it wash over her, clawing down Cassandra’s back slow and deliberate. But the show – the result, the prize – was something she hoped would be worthwhile. Her eyes – her dramatic, unnecessary, expressive Mage’s eyes – began to flicker like pools of gold so vibrant they reflected off Cassandra’s face. Hyper-stimulation that mingled with her mana, presenting the depth of her ecstasy. Windows into the essence of her. She tried her best not to close or look away, even as the zenith of her climax stood to distract her.

The waves calmed, and she was left without breath and an overwhelming pulse between her ears. The tingling in the back of her throat residual. Cassandra had her chest and ribs up off her, but the rest of her – the rest of them – as devotedly close. 

She was trembling. Cassandra, the woman who never broke face, was trembling. Olivia’s grip in her thighs melted into a comforting equator to which she sent all her remaining strength, her hand falling from the headboard. 

“You…agh…” she quivered, a bead of sweat falling down her brow, “you—”

Cassandra grinned, her mouth agape and collecting air to refresh her. “You gave…an order.”

“…Ass,” Olivia chuckled, before reclining her head back, chin up towards the bed canopy. “Holy…agh…”

The Seeker reclaimed both her hands and made quick work of sliding off her – that was, until Olivia strong-armed her.

“Wait,” she pleaded quick, “don’t.”

Cassandra tilted her chin. “But you said…”

“I know what I said. Please…stay.”

Cassandra softened, and relieved herself of having to be upright. She laid flatly down on her, almost like Olivia had on her when they were on the couch. The side of her head rest squarely on her chest. Olivia’s feet touched the bed flat, but she kept hold of her with them.

They breathed together, rasping and sometimes shivering. The blankets and sheets would have to be changed in the morning – or, as it stood, in a few more hours. But once things resettled into an equilibrium of nose-breathing and steady thoughts, it was as it always should have been.

“Your eyes,” Cassandra mumbled while her fingers traced down Olivia’s arm. “how long have they done that?”

“Hmph,” Olivia smirked, cheek against her own shoulder as she played with Cassandra’s hair. “Since a previous lover was kind enough to inform me.”

“But…how did…what did you do when it came to servicing people for…for money?”

A good question to ask, and one Olivia found no shame in answering. “I just never let anyone satisfy me. It was better to have people believe I was for their needs alone.”

No reply. More breathing, and the dying crackles of embers in the fireplace beyond where they rested. Time passed in lovely contentment. Olivia pressed her lips to her head and smelled the way her hair was sweet and balmy after their loving. It was unlike anything she had ever encountered.

“You need not fear being enough,” she assured, meeting her fingers with Cassandra’s and letting them dance amongst themselves. “I must be the most satisfied woman in Thedas at this hour.”

“Hm,” Cassandra chuckled, “I would doubt that.”

“You may be right, but I can negotiate.”

“That, I agree.” Cassandra rolled her head up, looking up at her with drooping, blissfully heavy eyes and a flushed complexion. “Your days of one-sided satisfaction are over.”

Olivia smiled. “Are they now?”

Cassandra matched her expression and pushed herself up over her. “I have never wasted an education before, I see no reason to do so now.”

A mischievous laugh; Olivia was convinced. “Fair enough, Pentaghast,” she played with the tousled edges of her short hair, just above her ear. “You have fine merits, but there is so much more to learn.”

“Oh, Maker,” Cassandra groaned, her forehead falling to rest on Olivia’s chest, “more mercy, please.”

Olivia laughed, her body enveloped in her teasing joy as she wrapped her arms around her. “Patience! I will grant you patience! I swear,” she said through her melodic pitch. “Rest, now.”

They laid together with no hope of resurrection. Cassandra opted to lay against her, sharing the pillow under both their heads as well as the blanket of Olivia’s hair sprawled across it.

“Olivia…” she said after a while and both had closed their eyes.

“Yes?” She muttered, hand tracing along Cassandra’s exposed back.

“When morning comes, would it be best for us to rise earlier, given the…”

Olivia grinned, vision blackened by her eyelids. She leaned towards her. “Shhh. No talk of rising.”

A contemplative break, and then, agreement --

“Another hour, then.”


	77. Coming of Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first full day back at Skyhold, and Olivia is behind the ball for more reasons that one. Touching base with several allies, including a beloved friend and now Advising Enchanter. Council unfolds the potential storm on the horizon for her and the Winter Palace, as Gaspard's correspondence informs them on multiple fronts of a Chevalier's manners.

Morning was first a sensation of warmth against crooks and cracks of her body: some on her jaw, then neck, then shoulder blades. Pressing with gentle need into the valley of her collar bone, deep but absolute. Currents that left her awash. Nothing else but the drenching of her skin in whatever it was showering her with touch. It tempted her to come back from slumber’s encompassing embrace, but did not convince. It all ended before that point. Her movement towards and against it no longer rewarded.

The second time morning came calling, the brightness was abrasive to the senses. The canopy curtains had been pitched -- not a strange arrangement, but it had been weeks and weeks since she knew what it was like to wake up in the clarity of a room rather than a camp.

Groaning coarsely and struggling to see a clear picture of her surroundings through her hair, the first instinct was to look. Look for her. But, this time, she was nowhere to be found.

Even as her hopes fell, they fell into a familiar place: dutifulness.

She brushed her hair from her face and laid back. Reality was a devout companion. High above her, the canopy was just how she remembered: dark, tapered, and opaque. Lonely. She had known so few instances of waking up in a lover’s arms and it being exactly what she wanted; now she finally had someone who made both waking up and slipping into sleep a rather sanguine affair, the reality of her starvation was all the clearer.

Her eyes wandered some more as she sulked, until she found that there was more to disappointment than its pure, unadulterated portents. On the pillow beside hers rested a square piece of paper, with a couple flowers. Dark purple, deeper than violet, and fresh. It took no thought to smile, reach over and take them into her hands. Instinct, grained and without a guard around her sensibilities. 

I thought it might have been too long since you were able to have flowers in your hair. Rest well, my love.

A one-liner shot to the heart; if Spring had not sprung yet, it had in that moment. She clutched the paper to her chest and her eyes got lost again up in the canopy. Only then, they had new wonder.

Noise traveled from the downstairs door. Visitors. Oh dear, she must have really indulged in sleeping in. No wonder Cassandra had to part from her. Maybe it was for the --

“Avast, fair maiden! I doth heard your swaggering ass came in with the rain!”

Olivia smiled again, and sat up, pulling her bed linens up to her chest. “Roslyn! Shouldn’t you be fighting some beast or conquering some mountain?”

A head of red hair rose up the stairs. What appeared to be an up-do quickly turned into a head of tucked, cut waves. Short, not tied back. Very short. When she came to the center rug and stood tall, it took a moment to really sink in.

“Roslyn,” Olivia’s eyes went large as she tucked the note under her pillow. “Did you--”

“Yes, I cut it all! You like it?”

Olivia’s mouth kept agape, just a tad. “I...it’s...it suits you.”

She snorted. “Olivia, you look like you just said that to a dead body on a pyre. You never did like change.”

“I like change!” she clutched the sheet tighter.

“Pfft, alright, correction: you like change when it’s a shot you can call.” Dressed in undergarments for armor, belt of blade and pocket around her hips. She looked like an adventurer’s fantasy, but with the mouth of their worst frustrations. Good Roslyn. She stopped when she reached the edge of the huge center rug, her hands going gingerly to her sides.

She was also good at changing the subject when needed. “Maker, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“My eyes are sore from sight,” Olivia sighed, holding her hand aligned with her brow. “Is every curtain pulled in this room, or has the sun come to share my bed?”

“You think everything in the world is vying for the pleasure you give still, Gem. Goodness,” she turned and did the job that had not been yet asked for. Going to the long tall windows and doors to the balcony, she gathered the drapes a bit more -- still ensuring light, but, not quite to the accosting degree they had been.

Cassandra must be a morning person. That, or the servants had liberties with the status quo.

“Agh,” Olivia breathed, dropped her hold on her sheets and stretching her arms out into the air. “Much better. I can now rise.”

“Pfft, your pretty little ass must rise no matter what.”

“Oh, soldier, commanding your leader at this early hour?” Olivia grinned, swinging her legs to the edge of the bed. On her feet -- her sore feet, connected to her sore knees, which held her sore thighs that lined her sore...well, sore places -- she went carefully to the dresser to find proper clothes.

The sound of Roslyn collapsing on a couch with her heavy and irreverent muscle. “You’ve gotten paler in your cheeks.”

“I have been traveling weeks in the spring Sun, Ros--oh, shit, dammit.” Olivia groaned, pulling a thick robe from her sleeping drawer. Tossing it over her shoulders and crossing it on her front, she channeled her resentment at her joke into tugging the sash tight around her waist. She came over to the couches and leaned her hip against the back of the one Roslyn happily laid across. Luckily for her nerves, it was not the one her and Cassandra occupied.

She was smiling like a fool and resting her eyes, fingers laced flat on her stomach.

“Have you been coming up here with impunity?”

“Me?” she opened one eye, “not in the slightest. I like my barracks.”

“Really.”

“Yes. I like them so much, I give them a break from my presence by coming up here. Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Oh!” Olivia squealed, grabbing a pillow laid off to the side and thrashing her with it. Roslyn’s legs jolted up, bent in an upward fetal position, but she only laughed. When they settled, and Olivia perched herself on a half-seated stance on the back top of the couch, it was only joy. Cringing, but devoted joy.

“I’m not the only one who has a new hairstyle,” Roslyn scooted up, one leg going over the other. “Andraste’s tits, what got the best of you?”

“A foolish archer with one last prayer to make before he met his deity.”

Roslyn was dead-panned, until a grin cocked one one side. “That’s killer. I’m so jealous! I could curl my toes and squeak.”

Olivia gasped. “Please do not. It’s been a basket of snakes. I’m only now feeling at peace with it.”

“You gonna keep the cut job? I think you should keep it. Give the ladies in the yard something else besides every part of your body to wish they could touch.”

“Roslyn!” She swatted at her knee, “have you been prancing around here like a deer in rut since you chopped yours?”

“Maker, I wish. The Commander’s sent me out on most every patrol and exploratory contingent he can. I was on break when the Spymaster ordered me to meet with the Seeker’s party in the mountains. I haven’t had time to shit or rut, either way.”

So Leliana had followed her strict direction. Good. Whether the mechanics behind it were transparent to her friend remained to be seen, which is why she paid the detail little mind.

“So, you’ve been busy.”

“Busy is an understatement. Then again, it has been the lot for everyone, here. Naomi hardly leaves the tower, Veronica keeps doing creepy antics or scaring men in the tavern…” she trails off a bit, eyes going out to the windows. “Theia got back about a week or so ago, and she has been keeping to herself. That has not changed.”

Well, can’t blame her. Olivia scrunched her mouth to one side, covering for her omniscience with a pout. “Yes, well, hopefully now that I am back things will start to be better,” she replied, rather candidly, stepping off the couch and towards her desk. “I have a good feeling.”

“Oh?” Roslyn called from where she stayed spread. “And what informs that, mistress of mayhem?”

“Hah! Stop it!”

“I mean it, what’s got you all loose? You’ve gotten more prodding than a herd of cattle and you haven’t sent me on my way.”

Olivia rolled her eyes and arrived at her desk chair, sitting down prim and easy in the middle of the cushion as he evaluated the stacks of forms and reports left off for her to review. “Maybe I have missed you. Imagine that?”

“Heh,” Roslyn sat up, “so the world is, in fact, ending.”

“Not if I can bloody help it,” Olivia took up a tied-together group of missives and strung her fingers through the bow knot.

“Well, then,” Roslyn rose, “I did come here for a reason. The Commander and Spymaster sent me to say your presence was missed but that your absence was understood at this morning’s Council table. They look forward to seeing you throughout the day, or this evening, at the very least.”

Olivia froze, eyes wide and brow lifted. She dropped the letters. “What? W-what do you mean, this morning’s Council meeting? What time is it?!”

Roslyn blinked. “Gem, it’s almost noon.”

_Fuck._

“No one thought to wake me this morning?!” Olivia chirped, evaluating herself. She was in a robe, her hair was still chaos from sleep, and she hadn’t even bathed. She might as well have been teleported to a Villa somewhere and given a glass of breakfast wine.

Roslyn put her hands out in the air. “Don’t blast the messenger, alright?”

_I did need the time._

“Time is not a luxury I have. We have much to debrief and put in motion. I do not just return to Skyhold when I need a posh respite.” Out the corner of her eye, her left palm’s illumination. The ultimate reminder. She flipped it upward and glanced at it, face strained with thoughtfulness.

“Gem, come now.” Roslyn came over to the desk and stood in front of it, at attention. “One morning all by yourself is no crime. They are not angry. Take the rest where you can!”

“My Advisers are talented at concealing emotions,” Olivia warned, rubbing her fingers with stress against her palms. Well, two of them were, anyways. The third was just austere and coarse as a general rule of thumb. “I will be fine. I will just...receive my docket from Josephine's office and pick up where I can.”

“Still a busy bee in the hive, after all.”

“It helps that the world expects me to piece everything back together with my bare hands.”

“True. But I don’t think anyone has ever accomplished such a feat by simply attending every morning Council meeting.” If you were to go by government bureaucrats and their style of work, you’d disagree. Alas, Roslyn had a point. An annoying one, but a just one. If she was needed she would have been found and woken up.

“Ugh,” she gave up, blinking fast and shaking her head. The missives came back into her hands. “Let’s see, we traveled back and stopped on...and then it was several…”

Roslyn smirked, and went away, heading towards the stairs with a slow and easy step. “It’s the 11th of Drakonis, Gem. Or, so says the purveyor of the Fortress serials.”

The 11th of Drakonis. Her birthday was days gone. Slowing in her movements but not stopping, she nodded a thank you and did her best to stay graciously coy. There was nothing to be sore about; everyone had a day of birth, and had kept working for the Inquisition with little or no pomp about it. One of the last claws her heritage had on her was a recognition of birthdays; something her Father had tried to do, even when she was encircled and cut out of the familial fold. Maybe it was that, and she just needed to pay respects to that feeling and be done.

Or, as it stood, she could do what everyone did best in times of perilous work: suppress like it didn’t matter. The mild ridicule she imparted on herself for bothering Blackwall at camp yet resonated, anyways. Best not to compound it.

“Oh! And please, go see Naomi some time today, if you can. She has been missing you, and ever since Theia came back with the…” Roslyn’s disembodied voice as she landed at the lower end of the stairs nevertheless conveyed the tenderness for the topic, “ever since they brought everything back, she has been...preoccupying herself.”

Right. A pit of hardness grew in her throat, and she rest a hand on her armrest. Clutching the rounded edge of it. Naomi. She had crossed her mind while she was stationed in the Dales, after she found out the news. Returned, it was time to address that which haunted them.

Twenty-seven years of age. Older than she often believed she would ever be.

\--

  


11th of Drakonis, 9:42 Dragon

For the Inquisitor’s Convenience, Duties to Perform Upon Her Fortuitous Return --

\- Visit the Commander’s Office to detail lyrium reports

\- Mingle, to her ease, with visiting dignitaries - which would be much appreciated by the Chief Ambassador

\- Time allotted for the Inquisitor to make her visits and be among people.

\- Council Meeting to review progress and discuss affairs for the Winter Palace  


They were going easy on her. Something about the pleasant way Josephine handed her the notes she had made, and the updates from the morning work, that was filled with ‘do not worry’ cheeriness. The first days back were almost always like wading through leftover paranoia and weariness like it was mud on your boots, until you walked through enough groundwater to rinse yourself. It was never an entirely clean job, though. Every time, more residue stuck. Though, it was good to see the Ambassador again. Her, and a spare stem of piper flowers that had been pressed flat, stuck within her quill holder. Months old, withered, but meticulously preserved.

Olivia had to wonder, then, what it was like for other reunions there: ones she had not seen, but detected, like elusive and beautiful runaway dreams.

The Commander was less soothing on the nerves, but his hardy attitude livened her spirits. He was in a good mood -- by his standards -- at the success of their tracking. A passing apology on behalf of the quest for what it did to the side of her head ended in a false, melodramatic rant about how her beauty was the one thing she had.

“I mean really, Cullen, you think the Inquisition runs smoothly without my pristine visage? Goodness sake, he could have got one of my eyebrows, then we would all be shit out of luck!”

A cocked brow as he thumbed through reports. “Every soldier to every nail in the wall cowers before your sacrifices, Inquisitor, I am sure.” Then a sly grin.

“Pfft,” Olivia opened his office door, waving her hand above her head. “Spare me your fake pity, Cullen.”

“However else would you take pity, then?”

“Served on a platter, braised and roasted,” she emphasized her underlying accent. “Ugh, now I’m hungry.”

He rolled his eyes. “Good day, Inquisitor. It is...good, to have you back,” playful. Just a hint.

She shrugged and saw herself out. No use spending more time with a man she held in such contempt.

\--

“Mingling” was a half-hour affair. Nothing remarkable, and nothing enjoyable. Like eating her vegetables in addition to dessert when she was a child. If only her adoration for the Ambassador and her work were a gallon less, then -- well, she’d still probably put up with it all.

Truth be told, she endured it to steel herself for what she did look forward to in her day, which was doing as Roslyn asked. The sourness of elitist conversation made the path to the Mage’s tower all the more incandescent a prize for her. Holding onto the flowing fabric of her gown, she braced herself for the second homecoming.

The door open, and the first thing were all the faces. A haphazard sensory experience for a woman hardened and scarred by skirmish after skirmish, but when those faces turned to smiles the defenses of her soul delayed the call-to-arms.

“Inquisitor!” various voices said, on tongues dripping in honored happiness.

Then, a woman coming to hug her. Bridget, with her flaxen hair and square shoulders. While she held her another came from the opposite end of the first floor. An Orlesian, but she could not remember her name. Echoes came from above floors, as hands went to the rails. Footsteps down stairs as a few others gathered around her. So many questions, so many inquiries. How was it? Were they as beautiful as the paintings, the trees? Are the rumors about the Chateau true?

“Hold on, hold on!” Olivia laughed, putting space between her embracing cohort and herself. “Goodness, it is good to see all of you! But I cannot answer five questions with the same answer!”

“Certainly you could, with enough time.”

All eyes went up, including the Inquisitor’s, to see her. Naomi, tall and confident, in a teal and blue gown with pointed shoulders and no sleeves. Her hair was braided in lines tightly to her head, and the lengths of their strands barely touched her shoulders. She had recovered both in weight and in strength, by the look of her and the feel of her energy from across the room.

Olivia smiled, relishing the visceral nerve to bow before her dear friend. She looked regal, and yet, there was a gloom hand-in-hand with it all.

“Enchanter,” Olivia greeted, stepping away from the group to the first stair. “I was told to come see you by a very dedicated and kind soldier.”

The sides of Naomi’s mouth pressed against her cheeks, but she did not let them grow. “Good. I was hoping you…” she took a breath. “I was hoping to meet with you.” Formality.

“Naomi,” she came up the steps, slow like she was talking a warrior into putting their sword down. “My friend, I have become a horrible writer, I kn--”

“Olivia Berenice,” she frowned, “do not even begin to talk yourse--”

“But I missed you,” she lingered on the last word.

“You did.”

“I did, I swear. Or we can take this outside and find a crack stick, if you have something to say.”

Naomi closed her eyes, and rolled her lip. The urge to laugh, maybe. Just as Olivia stepped up higher on the steps, she broke her facade and hopped down the remaining ones between them. Her arms slung around her neck as she fell into her, her face hiding in her shoulders. It was all Olivia could do to keep them both upright, her still-recovering back cringing at the sudden weight. She would never fail in catching Naomi when she chose to fall, though. Never.

“Ahah!” Olivia laughed, as the floor below them erupted into whispers.

“You intemperate, impossible woman,” Naomi muffled into her shoulder, “you’re alright?”

“Yes, yes, I am. You?”

Naomi sighed, contented, and pulled away. Her arms remained along the tops of Olivia’s, hands cupping her shoulders. “I am sound. You would know, if you’d write.”

“Agh, alright, I deserve that.”

“You do. Now, come on, I have much to show you of our little nook.”

Olivia eyed behind her; Mages watching their every move with adulation, if not a bit of nosiness. It was a coveted thing, to be a person whom the Inquisitor would allow such affection after a borderline admonishment. 

Together, they climbed onto the second level where their shared work corner had been, though weeks of change had reconfigured most everything. With permission and Naomi’s creativity, everything on their side of the floor had been reformatted: the desk was no longer cornered, but in the middle of the floor space. The shelf replaced where it had once been, and the bookshelves pulled away from the wall and lining like individual aisles. In the small window, a hanging plant was suspended on a hook with limbs and leaves sprawling. Some of it had been carefully pruned. There also two more of them, and mostly filled by the looks of it. It all looked and felt like honey on the eyes and ears: steam billowing from a small iron pot, a mug of something smelling of herbal. Medicinal. Olivia wanted to sit down and breathe it all in so she could forget she was needed elsewhere.

“Goodness, Naomi, you fall in love with a carpenter and a gardener?”

Naomi chuckled, and took a book into her hand as she came around to stand on the other side of the desk. “I have made adjustments. Mostly to make room for visitors, which has become a need since my role changed.”

“Am I still invited into this work space of mine, or have I been rendered inadequate?”

“Do not be absurd! Of course you are, it is at your service that I am here. Change whatever you like, and I will make do.”

A kind and integrous offer, but as Olivia evaluated it all, she found it rather hollow. Not out of insincerity, but rather: the place was just too perfect. Too efficient in its feel. Moving something an inch out of place felt like a crime. Her gaze scanned the desk between them which was lined with book stacks surrounding a flat chunk of chart paper. Titles were telling:

_Tranquility and its Histories_

__

__

_Evaluations of Fade Dynamics, Volume 5_

__

_Accounts of Meditative Magic_

__

_Mindfulness and the Physical_

A chill up her spine, with lingering melancholy, and looked to her. “Naomi, it all looks splendid. I will not change a thing. You’ve done well.”

Naomi beamed with modest merit, perhaps more than she had in Maker only knows how long. It was short-lived. “Yes, but I haven’t had much time for upkeep.”

“I take it the…” it was never going to be an easy topic to broach. A swallow, breath, and passing glance both eased and inhibited. “With what Theia brought back...”

“You mean ‘who’ Theia brought back,” Naomi’s pleasantries gave way.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat and looked away. “I was wondering if you would like to--”

“I have already seen them in person. The majority of us have. Though, I wish to see them again, without all the commotion. They are being held in the undercroft, on a table with a sheet over them. Like...like a funeral shroud.”

A hardened pounding of pulse between Olivia’s temples, and she was leaning more on the table. “Good. It is only fair they are held with dignity and modesty, rather than what...what they were like before. I assume you know we have ordered all our people scattered across Thedas to find and collect that which remain, yes?”

“Yes, and I hope you know how earnestly I agree with that decision. No treasure, no...no bounty is worth it, whatever they were hunting for.”

“No. I quite agree.”

All the sinew in Olivia’s body desired and dreaded the unsaid. It was not the time, nor the place. When she looked to her friend, who seemed to also struggle to swim in the depths of their invisible reality, it was a mutual understanding.

“Should we go, then?”

A pensive flicker in her look. “I have to work on a few matters. Your ally Varric, actually, asked me to evaluate modifications on his weapon for how hardy they could withstand in combat with Mages. I think he’s soft on me after he caught me walking around a few late nights ago.” She was right, again.

Olivia huffed a little giggle in her throat, neck arching forward. “Varric is good at keeping you company on sleepless nights.”

“Also quite the storyteller,” she raised her chin, endearment in her eyes. “Anyways, tomorrow morning I will have time to do as I wish. How about then?”

An odd thing to schedule, walking across the Great Hall and into the undercroft that had always been there. And, powers willing, would continue to be in the future. But it made nothing but complete and bitter sense to Olivia.

“I’m sure I can arrange that. It will have to be after my meeting with Leliana concerning the rest of the Hinterlands mission, but, I will come fetch you here and we can walk together.”

Naomi swallowed, her brow stoic. “Yes, I’d...I would like that very much.”

A piece meal grin grew on Olivia’s face, and she patted her palm against the neighboring wood beam as she began her withdrawal. “I will make note of it, then, that I need time with my dear Advising Enchanter for important matters.”

Just as she went to the side, Naomi set down the book and spoke one last comment.

“Olivia?”

She stopped. “Yes?”

She pressed her lips together, and conjured a smile though the rest of her expression limited its possible enthusiasm. “Those are beautiful blossoms in your hair. How well they seem to belong. It suits you, this look.”

Olivia broke face, her frown rounding. She could only guess as to how pink her cheeks turned. She reached and grazed her fingers against the petals, placed lining the shaved scar that was somewhat disguised by the way her braided and bunned hair had been arranged. Not everything had been lost. Not everything, but a great deal, all the same.

“Thank you, love. They were a gift by this hopeful season we have found ourselves in. One I am very thankful to have you here with me in order to enjoy.”

And what was spring but a result of death bribing the living for turning a blind eye to its presence?

\--

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Josephine and Leliana both shared an eye, before Josephine looked back across the council table. It was a simple question: what was so curious about the Duke Gaspard’s approval, that Josephine asked for specifically allotted time to discuss it. It was so bizarre Olivia’s sharpened temper towards Leliana took a backseat.

“Inquisitor, if I may, I think it would be best for us to discuss this past the point of disclosure with a more pointed group of allies.” An intriguing maneuver from Ambassador Montilyet, as she came around the edge to stand alongside the Inquisitor.

“Maker’s breath,” said the Commander, keeping his usual distance and impatience level.

“Commander,” Josephine warned, eyeing him before making her case: pulling several sheets from her clipboard stack, and setting them next to one another in front of Olivia. The first of them was a copy of their request for access to the ball, probably provided just for transparency’s sake. The second was a well-made, neat response, complete with a formal wax seal and signature. The third, and perhaps the most indicative, was a reconnaissance report from one of Leliana’s personnel.

When Josephine stepped back, Olivia came forward. Her chance, at last, to engage.

“Am I right in remembering he accepted, yes?” she asked, her fingers pushing onto the table surface.

“Yes, Your Worship. Quite energetically, might I add.”

“Energetically? What does that mean?”

“Curiosities run amok, so it seems.”

“Agh, what Leliana means to say is, the Duke is purported to have special interests in the Inquisition, and you, with particularity.”

“Why wouldn’t he? She is a leader of a considerably-manned force. If anything, it is jockeying,” Cullen, rebuffing but interested nonetheless.

Olivia chose the response letter first; she had to know what was being decoded first, in order to understand the secrets it held. Reading through, the rhetoric of the man’s welcome caught her attentions. Rather, the lack of care did. Orlesian men were just as much artistically vain in their conduct as women were. Perhaps more.

_It is a distinct honor to be able to escort Her Worship to the Winter Palace Ball. Her heroism and stature gracing our hallowed halls will surely provide a exhilarating addition to the festivities. Such a woman of renowned conquests and strength of character could hardly be turned away._

“Such a concise letter for a man who says the Game is not his to play, which is why my man’s letter is all-the-more informative.”

Once again, Leliana and the Inquisitor exchanged pointed looks, before Olivia switched out the response letter for the recon one. Short, in both length and hand, but telling --

  
His men talk nightly of her, in some way, shape, or form. He started by listening, but now he partakes. Her beauty, her abilities, reputation, past crimes. They talk as if they know her due to her heritage. He will not admit to much out loud besides curiosities, but it would be foolish to say he has no plans with the rigor he has in simply saying her name. Which to be clear, he says her name. Family name, not first. He knew of her Father.  


She set it down fast with the last sentence read. Too much, too abrupt. It wasn’t the Agent’s fault for it, but it hurts her.

“He is without a wife, if I remember,” she muttered, keeping things logistical.

“Yes, rather famously.” Leliana holds her own despite the sensitive implications of their discussion. This is no unfamiliar place to be for her. For either of them, though for Olivia, the court as a woman is proving different already from court as a child.

Josephine gasps in a chiding way. “The Duke understates his investment in the Game, but that may be to conceal his ineptness for it rather than his fondness. We must evaluate all contributing motivations; he may just be our way in, but that does not mean he will not impress upon your shadow as you surpass him.”

A smart way of putting it. Olivia bites on the corner of her mouth, eyes shifting fast to Cullen who was still resigned to it all. Then, to Leliana again, before landing finally on Josephine. She folded her arms, one hand raising to pinch fingers in front of her mouth.

“It is no surprise that men would want to pass nights on the front by discussing women famed for being women. I have no doubt some of our own do as much. I do not know enough about him to make his fancies more remarkable than theirs besides his position. I want more.”

Leliana grinned. “I have already set affairs in motion to accomplish that, Inquisitor, as I had a feeling you would say as much.”

“Thank you. When will we have the results, then?”

“It is difficult to say. Findings could take days, or weeks. I have my men working in urgency.”

“We all know we don’t exactly have weeks. But this is good. I want to know the exact parameters of how this man feels about me. None of the tavern table talk, none of the gloating. If there is anything to be taken advantage of, I want it signed, sealed, and delivered.”

“Good luck with that,” Cullen interjects, head tilted. “Even if he is a man of action, he is still cut from the same cloth as the rest of the Court..”

Josephine rejoined. “He is a man of military training and pedigree, and he has many reasons to plan advances on multiple fronts, not just the battlefield. If he does intend to usurp Empress Celene, he will need more than that.”

“There are a million ways to kill someone, but each of us will likely only realize one of them,” Olivia cuts in. The bluntness, the coldness, a passing phase like an eclipse, before she blinks and locks eyes with Leliana looking rather impressed and pleased, like a mentor. A face she has not seen in the Spymaster in months due to their cross-cutting.

Josephine became quiet, but out of willpower rather than impressionable manners. “Be that as it may, Celene is familiar with most all of them. It is as I said in the beginning: I recommend you convene a more specialized meeting of perspectives in order to prepare.”

“I agree,” she stiffened both her arms against her chest, before letting them fall. “If you can, arrange for you, me, Leliana, Enchanter Vivienne, and Cole, if he so agrees.”

“Cole?” Cullen asks.

“Yes, Cole,” Olivia confirms, folding all three pieces of paper, now evidence, together into one pile. “He has a knack for...reading between the lines. He is an functioning ally, and I depend on his advice as I do all you.”

“Very well, Inquisitor, I shall see if we can organize such a coalescence as soon as possible.” Josephine sounds accomplished, making notes with her quill that scratch with precision.

“Thank you. If that will be all, I should like to retire.”

“Certainly, Inquisitor,” Leliana lets her hands fall. “I shall see you in the morning, then? For our debriefing.”

Olivia’s focus finds her with unapologetic intensity, before she steps back to the side. “Yes. I will not be late.”

“It would be a first, if you were.”

Olivia nods, but she can’t help but look at Josephine standing at her side. Josephine, ready and attentive, and out of the loop. It is a feat, one only Leliana could pull off, to keep Josephine Montilyet out of affairs. Olivia wants to ask her, to take her aside and really ask if there was anything to miss in Theia being gone. If there was anything she hoped for: letters, tokens, anything. If she read lines from the Hinterlands reports and sighed to herself when she read “Agent Trevelyan - alive, uninjured.” Once and for all, pull the veneer back, and see. Vindicate or condemn what was manipulated. Maybe then, when Olivia imagined Theia coming back to Skyhold, there is a possible fantasy of her seeing Josephine in the Hall and having some form of solace. That would make the guilt so much easier; all adults did, it seemed, was look for ways to deposit their shame in the margins of sights unseen.

But, when Josephine looked up from her note-taking and to the Inquisitor, she smiled. Smiled, then a congenial bow of her chin. Without reproach.

“Right. Goodnight to you all, then.” She is the first to leave, though she takes care not to appear like she’s running from something. Out the doors and with the day satiated, it would likely be the last instance of rising late she’d allow for a long time.

\--

Though she began late, she ended late, and by the time it was nearing midnight she was still at her desk working her way through backlogged reports and letters. Some worth her time, others...debatable. But her last one visitor of the day, who made it all worth the stamina.

“Did you encounter the Empress while serving the Divine?” Olivia asked as they ate trappings of the Hall supper, sent up by a helpful cook when she noticed the Inquisitor missing in the crowd. Another piece of flatbread pulled apart between her hands as she sat, legs criss-crossed and body facing Cassandra beside her. 

“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied, before sipping some water from her chalice. Water, not wine. Never wine.

“And?”

“She is Celene: cunning, indulging, and dramatic. Prone to grandiosity for the sake of cultural posterity. The people adore her because she makes it easy to do so, but not in the ways a ruler should.”

If it had come from almost any other mouth, Olivia would have scoffed and wondered at the brutality. Since it was Cassandra, however, it was rather easygoing on her terms. She wiped her crumb-covered fingers against her bunched up gown skirt and reached for her bowl of cooked vegetables -- some of the first batches from Spring foraging harvests. They tasted rather bland without the spices and seasonings added during cooking, but they were easy on the stomach.

“I see she has garnered little praise from you.” She tossed another handful of legumes into her mouth.

Cassandra blew air through her nose and eased back against the couch, opposite arm perching up along the cushions. “Orlais and its politics are topics I do not take joy in discussing. Particularly from where I stood. People believed the Divine dwelled under Celene’s powerful thumb. No one employs Leliana as a Left Hand only to remain confined to anyone’s weight. But that is in the past, now.”

“So it seems. I must say, I do not hear you esteem Leliana often,” Olivia’s fingers pressed and tore at bread like a nervous woman would her handkerchief.

“She does not need it. Her work speaks for itself, and does not depend on praise to be needed. Much unlike Celene, and she rules an entire Empire.”

“You talk sharply for someone not enamored with politics. I have to wonder if that is truly your position, given your path. What does a Right Hand do, anyway?”

Cassandra glanced through her periphery at her, before cocking a boot heel up against the edge of the coffee table. She was dressed down, out of armor that rest on a table nearby. Her hair was wet, though, likely from pouring a basin over herself and calling it good. The other warriors did as much before suppers.

“What does a right hand do in real life?” she asked back, sending her hand to Olivia’s and diverting it from her anxious tearing of her food. Butterflies surged as she cupped over the knuckles and fingers. “It exerts strength when needed,” then pressing it into a rounded shape, “and makes a fist for which to use.” She held it there, as if placed out of comfort rather than instruction.

Olivia’s gaze flickered between their hands and Cassandra’s expression, which had turned more somber. Once she was done demonstrating, she flipped her hand around to be palm-to-palm with hers, fingers curving around the base of her thumb.

“They also hold tight, in my experience.”

Cassandra paused and relaxed her hold onto hers. “I did say they exert strength, did I not?”

A grin, and another tossed bite of flatbread between her teeth. “I can already tell you will be a sensation at the Winter Palace.”

“Ugh,” she scooted down, head laying back. “You spare me a real voyage, and deploy me for a Ball.”

“Very well, stay! I should very much like eyes and ears I can depend on back here.”

A pointed glare. “Do not even think about it.”

A giggle held back by food in her mouth, and Olivia tossed the surviving pieces onto her plate on the coffee table. Tempting to tease, but unthinkable to entertain was the idea of leaving again without her. She had proven well enough that she could journey and conquer in her absence. The fact was that, rather than dependent, she was desirous of her company. Perhaps that was worse, but the fine linings were effortless to disregard.

Cassandra sighed, her hand-hold tightening. “I am afraid you will not get prolific advice from me for the Court’s inner workings. I have my beliefs, but if working alongside Leliana and now Ambassador Montilyet has shown me anything, it is that beliefs and principles are little more than child’s play to people who live in echo chambers of their own devising.”

“Hm.” Olivia affirmed in her own way, before seeing a perfectly good lap for the taking. Shifting around until she was on her back, she laid down with her head resting centered between Cassandra’s hips, her legs curling up against some throw pillows. Cassandra had watched her with intrigue, but kept still. Their connected hands moved and found their resting place on Olivia’s abdomen.

“I have much to decide in the coming weeks,” she admitted, breathing in and sinking into her position. “It is strange to think about: entering as an outsider, having to re-educate myself on customs when I am a result of it all. A descendent.”

“Descendance does not prevent dissention, Olivia,” Cassandra said, her other free hand moving into Olivia’s hair. “Trust me.”

She hummed, her eyes shifting from open to close with a new softness at the touch of her. “I do. I should sleep, soon. I have to discuss the Hinterlands with Leliana tomorrow.”

“Does this concern what happened with…”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

An exhale of immediate frustration escaped her, shoulders jerking upward a bit as she shrugged. “Theia should not have been sent to Redcliffe. I fear Leliana takes it upon herself to strike where she believes me weak, so that I may toughen.”

“Better her than someone who has not the care or vigilance to ensure you learn and improve from it.”

“...Alright, that is twice now you have defended her, are you privy to her spies in the room or something?”

A light chuckle emanated from Cassandra’s chest, palpable to where Olivia lounged on her lap. “I do not pretend that she and I are compatible. But we have worked alongside each other for years. I have had to trust and rely upon her. And, by the Maker, she has abided by her commitments. Her tactics do not align with mine, but her purpose has.”

“Maybe it’s good then you weren’t made fingers.” A lighthearted, breathy remark she made whilst watching the fire.

A snort of air. “Is that more of your famed wit and acuity?”

Olivia stifled a laugh on the back of her tongue. “I am tired, alright, you allowed me to oversleep and now I am all out of sorts. I feel as though that I am twenty yards behind everyone at all times.”

“I thought it would be the best contribution I could give for a belated birthday.”

Olivia hurriedly returned her attention to her, as if to determine if the words really did come from her mouth or some disembodied voice in her half-asleep deluge. She lifted a brow, and was met with Cassandra’s reservedness softened by a slight smile. “You...you knew about my birthday?”

“Everyone here is aware, I thought you knew that. The Ambassador ensures it.”

That...makes sense. So much sense the fact that she did not think of it ahead of time reminds her just how mentally taxing the Dales expedition was. Blast it all. She rubbed her eyes with the side of her knuckle and lets out a begrudged, though high-pitch sound.

“So that is why everyone is treating me so carefully. I thought maybe I had finally struck the right balance of respect, fear, and subtle lust.”

“Subtle lust? Maker,” Cassandra looked ahead, lacing their fingers together.

“You’re right. For some, not-so-subtle,” she stuck her tongue between her teeth in a smile, and reached to hook her hand on the underside of Cassandra’s thigh, a move to which the Seeker’s ease dissipated into blush and allure.

“I thought you said you were tired and dislocated from your thoughts.”

“It is that famed wit biting for more. And now that I am twenty-seven, you cannot always blame it on my youthful inexperience.”

“What can I blame it on, then?”

“My aging rancor, of course,” she shook her head, playfully egging her on even as she sighed with contentment that betrayed her verbal sparring.

Cassandra did not spit back or counter. Rather, in her eyes, there was a gratefulness. It outlasted Olivia’s teasing face, and as they both melted into their connection, all that interrupted was fire crackling and the smell of fresh dinner plates picked and eaten.

“Twenty-seven.” Cassandra muttered the statement, after a considerate and poignant pause.

Olivia blinked slow, and whispered. “Yes, twenty-seven.”

“Hm.” She pursed her lips, adjusting her posture. “I saw you today, with the flowers in your hair. It made me happier than I expected, I nearly smiled in front of recruits, and the Commander, no less.”

“Very good, because that was the hope. That, and to find some way to decorate the meanness of this scowling wound on my head.”

“You will get used to it, I promise you.”

A ‘hmph’ sound in her chest, and she sent her hand to Cassandra’s face. With love she slid her fingers against the scar beside her mouth, for which Cassandra lowered her chin down and against her feel. Not enough, she then pulled herself up, resting her weight on a straightened arm on one of Cassandra’s seat while the other kept its touch on her. Their chests breathed so closely that every inhale combined them.

The feeling of Cassandra’s hand going around her waist made it all the more tempting to say what she wanted to say. To proclaim it, to cry it, to let it undo her. The world which they created when it was just them -- when it was only their minds and their hands reshaping the space before them -- it was seducing her inch for inch into an unsalvageable attachment. For every part of her that bent before their bond, one more chose to stand upright and refute. It was a fragile point of smelting every wall she had down into nothing, and even in the sincerity of her adoration, there was fear: fear that it was all a delusion that would take her down.

“Cassandra,” she said hushed, but didn’t say anything more. What could be said, but everything and nothing? That she both adored her and languished what it would mean if she wanted it to always be this way?

The Seeker grinned at her name, and pulled her into her chest. That made the suspicions cower. “It is alright. Come,” their noses grazed, their lips closing into one another. “There are other ways to talk of politics which I find much more satisfying.”

A grin, and brush of their lips. “As do I.”


	78. Keep Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia gets her long-awaited meeting with her Spymaster, though it is less bombastic than expected. Then, her and Naomi finally get to face what remains of the kidnapped and slain Tranquil side-by-side. A time of reflection on how the Rebellion has permanently shaped their lives.

12 Drakonis

Theia -- I am afraid I will have to move our meeting to tomorrow. I wish to discuss things at length with Leliana, and have time allotted for Naomi and I -- and the rest of our group, should everyone wish to -- to pay respects in the Undercroft. I would welcome you, but from what I have heard, your patrol group will be working through some flooded trails.

I sincerely hope you are well where you have been stationed. Stay safe, and be smart. I will see you when you return this evening for supper, with any luck. I hope this postponing will give you time to rest before we meet.

\- O  


\--

Days of intermittent storms had cleansed the fortress garden, leaving the soil fertile and supple under foot. No wonder Leliana wished to meet there. Out from the covered walkway, a first decent look of it all in weeks for the traveling Inquisitor, it was clear those in charge of its upkeep had done well to make the most of the changing seasons. Elfroot and other herbs were growing strong and abundant in their planters. The blue skies -- finally, blue -- and their light brought out all the colors of the foliage and flora. The well had been repaired as much as it could, and no longer posed a flooding threat.

It was a different place altogether from the one Leliana and the Inquisitor first coalesced to bare confession.

“Leliana,” Olivia called her to attention as she arrived at the steps of the decayed gazebo, where the Spymaster stood with her back towards her. She turned, and met her with a nice-enough mood.

“Inquisitor! Good morning.”

“I trust you rested well last night?”

“Define rest.”

Olivia grinned, and shook her head in ready defeat. “I could sooner define peace.” They stood side-by-side, parallel as both oversaw the garden’s early stirrings. A few Mages had gone out to harvest and prune, or even weed. Busy handiwork, but worth the effort. 

“I would think we have little time to spare for this.”

Leliana’s boot ground a little more into the dirt. “As always, yes?”

“Should we get into it, then?”

“Of course.”

It was hard to dislike her. It was hard to be angry with her. That was the ironic part about her: the woman could oversee systematic assassination and double-dealing, and be decidedly overlooked by malcontents. One could never hold her accountable for lack of caring, or of faithfulness. It was what defined her, and what Olivia looked up to for so long. Maybe even still, as they stood at odds with each other.

“I suggest we have a seat, then, so that we stand less of a chance of scaring the gardeners.”

They brought themselves to the nearest wooden bench. Leliana, to Olivia’s left, sitting with wide knees but careful posture. Meanwhile, Olivia kept more to herself, leg tucked behind the other with her hands on her lap, palms on each thigh. The dawning fog had made the exterior, woolen layer of her clothes damp earlier when she saw off the morning cavalry training.

“My instincts say you have questions for me,” Leliana said first, to cut into the anticipation.

“I do. I...I do. Mostly,” she let out a breath, “Leliana, I just wish to know why you believed what you did was the best. I am not foolish. I know you asserted yourself so that I would feel protective over her. Why? Why dig heels into a horse you need not spur?”

When Leliana looked upon you, you felt it. As discernable and unique as someone touching along your arm, or caressing your face. Albeit, less comforting.

“I did it in the service of a friend. One of the few I have left. I saw it as a remedy for multiple dilemmas which stood before us: you needed someone you trusted, and I needed to act upon my observations.”

“Do you not have enough on your plate to be supplanting yourself in Josephine’s personal life?”

“My role here is to implicate the personal. All motivations and plans, regardless of definition, are tethered to what we do. Nothing that goes on here is without consequence, especially when it implicates someone like Josie.”

“Someone like Josephine? And who is ‘someone like’ her? A noble, above and beyond attachments?” that was a cheap shot, an aimless one in the dark. Leliana was observant of the surface-level state of things, but she was not lost to it. Confusion as an emotion was willing to hook itself onto anything, though, if it meant sense was on the wings.

“Someone who is…” she was careful, her weight shifting and causing the bench to ache, “who is brilliant in the realm of politics and the Game, but is otherwise unused to love. An innocent.”

“An innocent?” Olivia tilted her head, looking at her in disbelief. “Leliana.”

“I do not mistake my words, Inquisitor.”

“I know you do not, which is I am calling them into question.” Her knees gathered and rolled into her direction, her engagement piquing where caution once prevailed. “What makes you think Theia is any savvier than she?”

“Because, Inquisitor, I do not let mumblings and musings go unnoticed. And I do not let your strife go invalidated.”

Ah. A piece to help complete the puzzle. All Olivia’s side-tracking grief, from her first days at Haven, to the camp in the wake of its destruction, to running off so that she could find her friends once and for all. Leliana had kept a detailed ledger for more than just safe-keeping.

“So, Theia, as you see her, is the heart of a great deal of discord.”

“As I see her? Inquisitor, do not believe for a moment that I have not noticed the way she weighed upon you as a memory, and then as a reality.”

Olivia’s shoulders went back, as she sat taller. “What, are you trying to prevent the same stress for Josephine?”

“I am trying to prevent any and all unneeded stress from falling upon Josie’s shoulders, as I am yours.”

“Unfortunate for us, friendship is quite an inducer for it.”

Leliana hummed a clever note of concession, her attention going to the scenery. “That it is.”

This was ridiculous. Within the crosshairs of all that had happened, there was but one sore thorn. One both of them had obtained over the course of the Inquisition’s lifespan. Leliana had not shown up to the garden to argue and defend her pride. Time apart, and time at work, may have done wonders for both their egos. As Olivia sat back, her backbone both literally and figuratively waning, more deja vu took hold of her.

“I can still remember what it felt like to sit here with you, that first day. How terrified I was, like the mountains and the walls were all closing in on me.”

Leliana perched her elbow on the back rim of the bench as she, too, eased. “You were a different woman from the one who sits beside me now.”

“Was I though?” she looked at her again. “Are we that different from the people who landed here? We are tired and angry. The only difference I see before me is how extended exposure to those elements has hardened us.”

“Our allies have done their best to maintain themselves and their stamina, In--”

“I’m referring to us, Leliana. Just you and I.”

They both went still, desolate as the garden once was. It had only taken less than a year to revive it, to usher it into a new era of breathing. Surely, if Skyhold could try again to live, they could find the motivation to be soft once more: to be impressionable to what they cared about. Just one more time, maybe.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana tried again, sitting an inch or two closer, “you have depended upon me for more than just intelligence. You have trusted me as a confidant, as a person of faith to impart my point-of-view. Perhaps, in that dependence, I took too much advantage. If you believe that the case, then I offer my apologies.”

From the rim of her purple hood, red hair curved and bent, clinging to the fabric. Olivia took it in with the rest of her: her narrow face, and her rounded green eyes. The age showing in subtle lines at their corners, visible only if Sister Nightingale permitted you close enough. Despite her work she never looked tired, or overwrought. Excavation of the world’s darkest corners became her.

“You had your reasoning, more than just dismissing Theia or conditioning me to conflict.” She crossed her leg over the over and her arms against her chest.

“My reasons are in my confession.” Leliana scooted into the corner of the bench between the armrest and the back, one hand resting above her armored knee. “You have worked hard to fortify yourself against weaknesses. When you broke from our protocol to retrieve your friends, I worried even in the wake of your confidence that it was hiding insecurity. I saw the tests that lay ahead for you, for us, and I wished to know what you would do. How you would move the pieces on the board.”

Olivia’s lips parted. The cold air pained the tips of her teeth. “So you were, in fact, testing me.”

“I always am.”

“Agh, Leliana, tu me fatigue.”

“Pourtant vous continuez.” Her response invoked a twang of surprise in Olivia’s neck. Too many people had been entertaining spouting off in her mother tongue; it was rather vindicating to be talked back to. Leliana did not spare the common tongue often, though. With a subtle laugh caught in her throat, she added more explanation.

“You had been given a chance to transform yourself. I wished to see what you have done, beyond the pomp and the aesthetics, with the opportunity you had been given. To see how strong you would be withstanding forcefulness, even from someone you trusted. Preventing Theia from interfering too much in Josephine’s life was good kindling, though, I’ll admit.”

“And?” she threw her hands up to waist level, before they fell back into her lap with a snapping sound.

Leliana grinned, and her eyes lowered to the ground just past their shoes. “Corypheus is a threat to the world, Inquisitor, but so is his foe if she doesn’t know how to balance loyalties. I have watched it strain those I have served before, and have done my best to assist where I could. I would not deny you the same effort.”

“As much as I appreciate that, I have a difficult time being posed alongside people like the Divine and Hero of Ferelden.”

“Difficult as it may be, you will be in the pillars of history regardless.”

Olivia frowned softly, hand rubbing upwards onto the edge of her shoulder. “Thank you, that makes me feel a whole lot better.”

“I am not the one whom people go to for comfort most days. Assurance, maybe.”

About a minute passed without talk from either side. What originally was ‘no time to lose’ had waned in the face of a rare chance at reflection. It had been so long since their interactions had been anything but friction-laden debate. Caught between the rocks that confined them to hard place after hard place. But in the garden in the morning, with hesitant heat flowing along the wind’s tide, there was patience renewed.

“What would be that old phrase? In uncertainty, find infinite possibility?” Olivia asked, then huffed.

“When it comes to words of ‘wisdom’ such as those, Inquisitor, I apply the same rule as I do to scripture: the importance is not in the phrasing itself, but how it is used.”

Olivia sighed. “You are right. As you most always are.”

“The exception would be…?”

A pause, while she let the words linger between her tongue and teeth. “Theia should not have gone. She should have stayed here, and we should have both looked the other way when it came to her and Josephine.”

“That is out of the question,” she replied, her definitive confidence returning.

“Leliana.” Olivia adjusted her seat to placate the anxiety in her heart. “How long has Josephine kept those flowers in her quill jar?”

That was not the question Leliana wanted to have asked of her, as her lips rolled closed and her gaze went back out. Re-calculating. It would be brief, and thus Olivia only had a short window to really sink in.

“Fine then, allow me to reposition my point: if you wish to cut-in, you’ll have to do it yourself. I will be out of commission from this point onward. Rendered a hypocrite if I were to interrupt whatever it is that is stirring up between them.”

They glanced at each other, as if there would be a question of why: why she would be in the wrong. But they both knew. Leliana’s eyes grew cold, not from cruelty but from fair concession.

“I understand, Your Worship.”

“I know, much to my own chagrin.” Bed chamber spies made conversational context both simpler and more potentially embarrassing.

Leliana relented and moved onto the next prong of it all. “Cassandra defended her insubordination in reports. Am I to assume this had anything to do with you?”

Olivia blinked, and shook her head quick. “I had no oversight or input in her reports. How could I have? Skyhold was the midpoint between all our correspondence. You would have seen it.”

“You need not write to her to interfere in her process or shape her actions. If I am to be honest, you never have.”

Her stomach sank. “All I asked of her was to ensure their safety. Both of them, not just Theia’s. My orders were congruent with yours: no direct combat. They were ambushed, how could she help it?”

Leliana nodded one solemn time, her chin staying parallel with the ground. “It is fortunate then, that her exception was out of over-qualification rather than deficiency. Quite a departure from your voiced concerns of her not being prepared for the challenge.”

The reports were anything but unclear. Theia had posed herself between her side and the enemy, rather decisively, and showed off just why she was so unstable. In that truth, Olivia’s false concern was uncovered. Her best friend’s power once was a finely-tuned oscillating force in the Circle, kept subdued just enough to leave Templars off her trail, but practiced still. Her mentors were very different than the ones Olivia took to: they were physical, demonstratively brutal in temperament, and demanding on their favorites. When Theia was asked to dance, she danced. It was a hard life to watch through the eyes of a friend.

“Theia acted foolishly on multiple fronts, but she has a good heart, one that will always put the right thing above her personal comfort. She defends what and who she values. You may be critical of her, Leliana, but just know it is because of that woman that we are all here. I was her friend she followed into the dark time and time again.” The words became harder to say without provoking tears: ones long-denied, finding at long last a time to shed. She tucked her chin against her scarf-covered chest, her eyes nearly closing as she got lost in the act of tugging at her glove leather.

“Then, surely, I cannot fault her in all things; there must be something to be done, then, to turn the tide.”

\--

Walking with Naomi to the Undercroft felt more sacrosanct than following her Mother did on the day of her Father’s burning ceremony. Side-by-side and with affection, compared to lagging behind a self-righteous woman with a fist full of gown train in her hand urging to set it on fire. She was also a more forgiving person, for coming along even though Olivia was hours late for their originally timed departure. When they arrived, Dagna and Harritt were both gone, having been told to clear out to take a long meal break during the midday. A convenient distraction so that Mages could be Mages without having to accommodate for whatever reason. So much of their lives had been just so, without fail. 

The tables that had been brought in were freshly constructed and level across the floor. Three in a row from end-to-end, the shroud just as long as it covered the tabletop and hung over all edges. The fabric was a dark blue, mirroring the part of nightfall when stars first began to shine. In two rows of ten, spherical objects of slightly variant sizes dwelled, equal distances between them all. These were just the ones brought from the Hinterlands.

After poignant silence, Naomi spoke. “They are clean, as if gone years buried to decay within the ground.”

“When we touched them in the desert, they--”

“Were smooth and polished, like marble rather than bone. Yes, I know.”

Naomi was the closest to omniscience when she was this way, as if she had been watching from the heavens as everyone did their wrongdoings and committed their violence. This was never supposed to be the way their lives happened. They were not meant to stand together somewhere un-surveiled and undaunted, dressed well in clothes befitting their authoritative stations, and looking upon the realities of their lives in past-tense: encircled, barred, controlled, not spared. What once was, rather than what is.

Gathered in front of her, Naomi’s hands were intertwined, her thumb rubbing deep. Olivia had hers behind her, though they were framed by shyness.

“I have not had the time to connect with the Rebel leaders about this. I am afraid I do not have all the answers I wish I did. All there is are notes, sparse responses on the edges of reports. Annotations.”

“We do not need testimonies to see what was done, Olivia. You know that.”

“I would rather know all sides before we--”

“Olivia, may I be candid with you?”

The Inquisitor tilted her chin toward her friend, and nodded once, frown pressing against her cheeks. Naomi’s steely expression was enough to convince.

“I do not blame what Fiona and her allies decided to do for what has happened. They made the most difficult decision, and from the stories I have heard, it was a desperate one. That being said, I have to wonder when this will bear the fruit we were promised. You remember what it was like when the Rebellion came lurking like darkness in the halls, rather than on the mighty cries of our liberated peers. Where was the victory? Where was the freedom in what happened?”

“It is here, with us, where we stand, Naomi.”

“Yes, esteemed company as we stand in front of the remains of innocents hunted for sport in order to be treasure-hunters’ decorations. Once, they were eyes, and ears, and mouths: senses that held dreams and wants. Needs. Where did they go once they were vanquished, and their faces branded? If one person can hold aims which shake the world, where do hundreds’ worth escape to? Where do they take refuge?”

“That could be answered one of hundreds of ways. We cannot blame ourselves for the precariousness we were coerced to live by. They kept us the way they did so that we would be easy to cut down. Our lives were always pressed to the butcher’s block at the neck.”

“Were they? I had no idea. I have forgotten in the reaped abundance what it was like to--”

“Naomi,” Olivia warned with care, “you do not need to mock me.”

“I am not mocking you! I am…” she bit on her lip and bowed her head so as to quell the words she wished to say. In that, Olivia was sorry. Naomi deserved better than to feel the need to bar her temper that rarely allowed itself expression. This mattered to her.

Olivia took hold of her at just above her elbow. Their gazes reunited, and only then did Olivia see the arising redness in the whites of Naomi’s eyes.

“I should be thanking the fates that I was not made one of them. I should not have to…” spit flew loose from her lips, “I should not be feeling so relieved. It is not fair to them. There has to...to be a way to ensure…”

“That no one has to be here as we are, ever again.”

Naomi perked up. “You…?!”

“My friend, you are piss poor at hiding your studying interests in our ‘shared’ workspace.” Her hand fell from her friend’s arm, sliding down the length of it until she reached her hand to take hold. Naomi let go of her own grip and gave in readily, finger tightly winding between Olivia’s. Between them they were the physical oath against severance.

Naomi blinked and took a breath. “Forgive me. I know I am probably pursuing superstitions. I just...I have to wonder. Don’t you wonder? Why tranquility...why it is so…”

“I have, and I have also discovered things.”

Naomi’s eyes widened. “Olivia, what?”

Olivia raised her head and inhaled slow. Deep, and full of hopeful bravery. This had been a long-hiding gift she had limited time to assemble. But it wasn’t impossible to do. “Before Roslyn or Veronica show, I have two orders for you. The first, is that you take several days to yourself to rest, away from the tower.”

“What?! B-but, Oliv--”

“Naomi.” She looked at her with a knowing and precise stare. “I have been away, but I have not been ill-informed. You exhaust yourself, night after night. You become buried in our archives and burn enough incense to fill the Grand Cathedral. You need rest; Enchanter Vivienne and I will pick up where you are for a few days. You will sleep, eat, walk, and enjoy the warmth of this new season.”

Naomi, outraged and mouth agape, tugged back at her hand. Tugged, but did not let go. “Why are you punishing me?”

“I am not punishing you. I am trying to remind you that you are not just the spirit for which you press on for.” Brutal, and frightened honesty. The time for denial was past. They were aging, and they were going on. Adaptation and revelation were vital tools.

Naomi looked confused, but not shocked. “I have found my purpose here, Olivia. I know what I am capable of, and what I must do.”

“And it is glorious. But you and I are alike in that we will cast ourselves over the coals hoping to continue the fire that needs us after we burn away. We have endured this long, Naomi. We must continue. I need you…” tears once again threatened to arise, “I need you here with me. For that, as your leader, I need to ensure you are cared for as I do everyone else here.”

Naomi closed her mouth. Her head tilted in sorry endearment, and she held her hand tighter. “Olivia, Corypheus and his allies are not a cause for which off-time can be readily granted. I see people working hard, it is not just me. You! You, of all people.”

“Just a few days. I promise, as much as I can help it, the world will not become eviscerated. Even if my single motivation is making sure you have time to yourself.”

A half-hearted grin. “...Yes, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you.”

“And...and what of the second order?”

The second one was scarier to utter. Once upon a time telling Naomi what to do with her time used to be the unspoken dare. Oh, how terrors had changed and grown.

“My second order is that you meet with Seeker Pentaghast your first day back from your rest and discuss your interests further. The conversation and knowledge you search for is with her, not me. But I promise you, it will be worth it.”

“She...she wishes to meet with me?”

“She and I have discussed it, and I have recommended you for a certain preliminary set of responsibilities. She agreed.”

Naomi’s eyes flickered to the tables and the shrouded skulls. She was trying to get to the bottom of it all, too early. Time would unfold sure enough.

“The Seeker. Does this mean the Order did have something to do with it? Is that why everything I have found has been either based on destroyed sources or banned?”

Olivia’s expression became more pained, and she did her best to keep up with the conversation as a form of distraction away from innermost thoughts and sensations. Authority was a potent mask for grief. “It means, she will be at your service as much as you will be hers. I trust you will do well together.”

Naomi straightened out until she was back to standing parallel at her side. “Not as well as you two have done, but I am sure we will do our best.”

The sneakiness of the comment did not exempt Olivia from the blush it inspired. Luckily and by the grace of her friend’s kindness, she realized it with no prying eyes. Hard-won steadiness.

Then, the door opened.

“I heard a certain someone was making time for--”

“Veronica!” Olivia turned to see her walking towards the top of the stairs. Deep brown hair around her shoulders, loose and thick. Not cut or changed -- just as how she remembered. Boots muddied, coat unbuttoned, but otherwise intact with a subtle grin.

Interrupted she flinched and held her hands out. “Woah, woah now!”

Olivia smiled and rushed towards her, weight only on the balls of her feet. Veronica hopped down to the bottom level just in time to catch her. Maker, she was tall.

“Oof!” she let out, wrapping around her. “What is she doing, trying to recreate the opposite experience of what it was like to reunite the last time? Wait, shit, your hai--”

“Not a word.”

“Right. Good. Uh, hello, Gem.” 

“Ugh,” Olivia sounded as she pulled back, gripping her arms. “Can’t you just take a hug?”

“I do not think I am known as the huggable one in our little group.” Tired, by the sounds of it. “Go easy on me, though. I have been doing the Raven’s work.”

Olivia furrowed a brow as they broke from each other. “Wait, so you have been working for Leliana?”

“Ah, well, no one exactly declares that sort of thing,” she shrugged, “but, I found it better than marching in the crack of dawn or messing up the morning meat pies. Or trying to learn magic from Queen Bee over there.”

Naomi groaned. “Veronica, I--”

“No, no, I have accepted it! Anyways, I was told to meet you here so that we could talk more of…” her eyes went past them, onto the table. “Well, this...unsavory business.”

Naomi and Olivia took the cue and followed her, and all at once the recaptured joy dissipated from the air. Where it went was anyone’s guess. Skyhold wasn’t exactly the world Capitol of good times to be had by all.

“Yes,” Olivia agreed, begrudgingly, “I thought it would be...nice.”

“Nice? I see now the credit for all the parties here lies with the Ambassador.”

Naomi chuckled bittersweetly. “Veronica, have mercy.”

“I am!” she came forward to stand with them, leaving Olivia the middle between their conversation. “I just don’t see much of a reason to...well…”

“You can say it, Ro.” Olivia girded herself.

A strained breath. “…They are gone. They would not want us to linger, when there is work to be done.”

“If they were allowed to want things,” Naomi corrected.

Veronica raised a brow and turned to her. “Just because Tranquil do not desire, does not mean they do not see what must be done and strive for it. They were, and are, a part of us. And what would we wish to say if those who survived us were in our positions?” The question was a smack to the face, but the kind your received when you needed to sober up and a plunge in the water felt too brisk to attempt.

“I suppose,” Naomi answered first, as they all came to stand in a line together, shoulder-to-shoulder. “I would say the cause did not end with me, and perhaps will not end with them, either. But it is worth undertaking.”

Veronica hummed low, an affirmative sound. “And you, Gem?”

What could she say? That she had been contemplating what her legacy would be for months, ever since her title was earned? Bestowed, regardless of merit in the traditional sense? That would be too much to center. This wasn’t about her, or her plight.

“I would say…” as she began, the memory of the girl’s remains at Chateau de’Onterre flickered through her thoughts. Sharp, and miserable. She cleared her throat and cradled her arms against her. “I would say to be brave. Be brave, and do not let loss define the fight.”

“...Good enough.”

“Agh!” Olivia sneered, “what, not poetic enough for you? You have a knack for prose, now?”

Veronica bunched her shoulders and gave a crooked smile. “Everything with you is always so heavy, like you are auditioning for a new Chant to be inducted into the Chantry. You--”

“Excuse me, Ro, for speaking truth to my life now th--”

“You two! Please!”

They shuddered in their own ways and looked down the line at Naomi. Her arms were folded, and her scowl was almighty. Veronica leaned forward, gathering her hands behind her like a scolded Scout.  
“Well ahem,” she coughed, “I would say, that this is what the fight is for. This, right here.”

“What do you mean?” Olivia asked, impatient.

“I mean this: Being able to talk and be ourselves without Templars lining the walls. No robes to make us all the same regardless of our hopes and ambitions. Three Mages in a room, having come from three different days of work, and they get to say when it is time to leave.”

“Hm,” Olivia nodded, rocking back from her heels onto her toes, “good enough.”

“You’re an ass.”

“You’re the hair on an--”

“Goodness, I will fry the both of you if you do not stop--”

“She’s the hair on an ass’s ass! There you go, Gem, finished it.” Roslyn, slamming the door behind her as she came jogging over and down onto their level. Linking up with Naomi’s arm as she smiled jovially, she quickly found her friend to be a most stiff respondent.

“I meant...my mistake, Gem, you should not talk so crassly in front of the departed. They might come back to life and correct your pronunciation.”

“Roslyn!” Naomi again with her reprimanding, as both Olivia and Veronica stifled laughter. “Honestly, grown adults and we cannot even have one serious meeting for ten minutes.”

“Grown women who were once children,” Roslyn assuaged, pressing her lips to the side of Naomi’s forehead in a peck of affection. “And those memories are precious. Without each other to open our mouths, for all the rest of the world knows we simply appeared as jaded women as we are now.” Naomi and Olivia sighed, while Veronica continued to hold a chuckle in her.

One last time, the door sounded off. All of them turned, not expecting anyone, but finding the one person who would think to show. Back early, unhooding herself as she came to the stair rail. She must have come directly from arriving at the gates.

“Theia,” Naomi said aloud what they were all thinking as she halted.

With hesitant tone, she replied. “Yes,” breath a bit labored, “I’m here.”

It was a holy and near-impossible fight against the urge for them to all look across to Veronica, the one person who had not made peace or contact with her in some form that would move them on from the past. But, Veronica did what she did best -- when she put her mind to it -- and came forward, closer to the one left out. Theia immediately shifted in her attitude.

“Hi,” Veronica greeted.

“Hello, Veronica.”

Veronica did subtle bounces on her feet. “You...you came.”

“I did. I did not think I’d make it, but, I thought I would see if you all were--”

“I heard…” Veronica cut her off, “I heard what happened, on the way back from Redcliffe.” Maker, had they not seen or talked that long? Had all this time been them orbiting in separate spheres praying they would not collide?

Olivia inched toward Naomi and took hold of her hand again, but that was all. Otherwise, they were frozen with anciness.

Theia blinked. “Yes, well, it was fine. I...I risked very little.”

“You risked little? You lit half a mountain up. Everyone was talking about it when they returned, in the tavern.”

Air puffed through her nose. “Warriors talk story.”

Veronica took a step. “You’re smug when you’re modest. Tell the truth.”

“I am telling the truth, Veronica,” a touch of frustration. Then, Theia looked to the table of skulls she was probably all-too-familiar with. “I...assume we have plans for them.”

“Yes, we do.” Naomi, once again protective.

“Good,” Theia nodded, a bit off-kilter.

“Theia.” Veronica, again. Their eyes met one more time.

“What is it, Ro?” Theia granted, terser. 

Silence. Bated breath. Lips that did not let an ounce in or out. Never had there been such a stalemate so desperate for an end. Naomi clung to her, and Roslyn to Naomi. They all wished the same thing.

“We…we should talk, some time.” Monotone, a bit cracked at the end. Vulnerability, perhaps?

Theia took a step down but stopped when Veronica’s response was fully realized. A second of reckoning. Then, breakthrough.

“I would like that.”

Veronica pursed her lips from what Olivia could see of her face, and she blinked fast and with a flurry of lashes. Her expression must have been poignant in all of its glory, because Theia grinned, and came down to stand beside her. Still space between them, but of the respectful kind rather than for the sake of safety. The result of the mission must have moved Ro more than she would show, while she was trying to cheer everyone else up.

After that, Theia’s next face to look to was Olivia’s.

“Hello, Inquisitor.”

“Hello, Theia.”

Staring, again. Too much quiet, too much waiting for the shoe to drop. Why did a shoe have to drop in the first place?

“I did as you ordered and kept alive. Do I not have a reward?”

Olivia snorted a bit. “My Inquisition does not reward the bottom line.”

Theia frowned as she began taking off her gloves, looking offended for a moment as she gazed down at her hands. A pin could drop and carry the consequence of an avalanche.

“Well, shit,” she said blankly, “then that certainly doesn’t explain Lyn’s promotion.”

Roslyn, loud and ready to tackle by the sounds of it: “Hey!”

Naomi, further aggravated: “Agh, Theia, why--”

Veronica, her guard finally down: “Sweet Maker, Theia, you come into the Undercroft like a--”

A symphony of voices. Of beautiful, energetic, passionate, and clever voices. Olivia did not dare pollute them. She could only look at the one friend who held the key to contentment, who had walked in late out of the afternoon air, bringing with her that which could cap off such a sorrowful occasion with a prevailing ounce of sanity. Sanity in insanity, as it were, as they argued to have their grievances heard.

In the midst, Olivia came to her and tossed her arms around her neck. Something that Theia evidently expected, because she took her into her arms without so much as a surprised breath, clutching her gloves in one hand and Olivia’s waist in the other.

The bereft voices quieted down into semi-grateful murmurings. While she would not give her the benefit of saying it out loud due to the already overt healthiness of Veronica’s ego, Olivia did agree. The fight was for what they had, and what everyone like them deserved: to laugh, curse, be angry, threaten half-assed violence, and even cry, without the risk of it being it the last opportunity they’d have to do so.


	79. Our Definitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theia and Olivia at last get to talk things out, though in the true tradition of best friends, anger rarely survives a good breakfast and honesty. Though meaning well, Theia plants seeds of concern. Later in the day, a quiet stolen moment between the Inquisitor and Seeker is stumbled upon by a rather unlucky, well-meaning Commander, prompting Cassandra to seek clarity on a few boundaries.

27th Drakonis, 9:32 Dragon

Dearest Father,

Thank you for your letter. It brought me great joy to receive it. I know you worry for me, but it is unnecessary. I am looked after here as well as anywhere. Here I am able to learn and live as what I am rather than hiding or risking greater harm to you and the family. But we have discussed this. 

My companions made sure to make my birthday memorable. We shared the whole day together side-by-side, and I was never lonesome. We ate all the same meals, studied, and retired to sleep simultaneously. Our gowns are even styled similarly, which I know would sound like awful to Mother and my Aunts. We are quite attached, and I find great comfort in their friendship.

Theia, the one I am closest to, even wrote me a card. On the front was a sweet little drawing of flowers, and they reminded me of the ones in our terrace garden. Those flowers, and you, are the parts I miss most. Thankfully with Theia around I do not grow sad for very long. 

My seventeenth year will be a fortuitous one, Father. I can feel it. Thank you once again for your letter, and I hope this one finds you in good health and happy spirits. Now that it is Spring, I know you will be starting your hunts soon. Ride well.

All my love and sincerest wishes to you,

Apprentice Sinclair  
Ostwick Circle of Magi

\--

“Do you recall the first time we ever shared a meal?” Theia asks from her place beside the Inquisitor. They are on the floor, backs against the couch and legs straight under the coffee table. It seems this particular square foot of her quarters has proven itself as useful for tender conversations. 

The question compels a far stretch into the depths of her memory, and she stops chewing on her breakfast scone. 

“I suppose I do not. Hm, it must have been one of the only ones not to end in someone getting food thrown in their face or onto their robes.”

Theia snorts, mouth full of smoked sausage. “You might be right.”

“I rarely am wrong, no?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, well, fine then, be critical on this beautiful morning.” Olivia grabbed the goblet on the edge of the table top and put it to her lips, swigging back a gulp of cool water. 

“I thought that you inviting our meeting to be held over breakfast was your referencing the first time we did as children. Forgive me for thinking you’d have time for nostalgia.”

Olivia stopped chewing and looked to her. Theia’s hands were pulling apart white bread, ripping from crust edge to crust edge. She was, as she tended to be, cooly pensive. Dressed in clean pants and a shirt with gear on for trekking, probably soon to be sent off on another spying service for Leliana, or to backup to a patrol. Busy bees knew the value of honey. 

“So it was breakfast, then?”

“Late breakfast. You overslept and missed it in the hall. I had stowed away bread and jam in my robes, and you came running down like a loose horse. I shoved one in your mouth and told you to keep quiet or the Templars will think you’ve stumbled upon something you shouldn’t have, or rather...saw something.”

Olivia huffed, and swallowed her bite. “I was very clumsy.” 

“Yes, at first.” Theia nudged her shoulder against hers. “Eventually, though, you learned. I mean, you had to. We all did.”

She was correct in that hindsight. Painfully so. And as Olivia took another section of her drizzled scone for herself, the flashbacks of sparse seconds in center plates of food flashed. Long banquet tables of coarse wood, sometimes a splinter or two getting in your robes for you to brush up against and yelp to yourself. The flat, tin and iron serving ware. Austere, so they said. Modest practicality. 

“Look at us now,” Olivia remarked, soreness and warmth simultaneously invoked, “still endangered every minute of every day, but now with some decent dining utensils.”

Theia choked a laugh, her cup tilted end-up while she was mid-sip. Fingers rubbing across her mouth as she got her breathing back. “M-maybe so.”

“We both know, unfortunately, that I did not arrange this for simply eating and commentary on the finery.”

“No, you rarely ever let things be.”

"Oh, please.”

Theia set her plate on the table, sliding it with the tips of her fingers onto the wood grain surface. She wore a playful grin as she gathered one knee against her chest, fingers lacing across the front of her calf. The whole marathon of serious, one-on-one conversations with the women in her life are getting arduous. It was not that they weren't entertaining, or productive: it’s just that every minute of talking feels like staring into a mirror posed towards her, held in the hands of someone she regards so highly that surely, the reflection they were showing had to have some merit. For better, or worse. With Naomi, it was the likeness of a Mage who was at one point in her life, only one or two steps away from likely being a sacrifice for a Oculara. With Leliana, it was the image of a leader having forged herself out of great suffering, trying to find reasons not to let it callous every inch of her. 

But with Theia, it was the worst out of all of them. It was her seventeen-year-old face, and frizzy edges of blonde hair, and the way her eyes lit up when her friend was there to have her back.

“Well,” Theia shrugs, “out with it then. What is your judgement?”

Olivia strains, voice cracking as she empties her hands. “I sent you to Redcliffe as a means to protect you against one of two dangers. I meant that. Still, I know you should not have gone, and that was my error.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You have not had enough time to train or adjust to the way things are here. I know you, I know you like things to be familiar and flexible, but, that is not the way it is at Skyhold.”

“I like things to make sense. That is hardly a gap.”

“Theia.” Olivia tilts her head at her, narrowed eyes of a friend seeing through the nonchalant facade. “I read the reports, do not think I didn’t.”

Theia blew more unimpressed air through her nose, and her gaze went straight, towards the dormant fireplace. “I did as I was ordered to. And when I didn’t, it was extenuating circumstances that compelled me to break from those orders. Or should I remind you that you lied to me?”

“That was not the--”

“No, Gem. You lied to me. You did not say a single word about you and the Seeker; and now I know it was because it would have made you a pretender. You criticized me for simply imagining behavior you, yourself were carrying out with impunity. For how long?”

Her words hurt. To think she still agreed to come, that she still embraced her with the same protective bond she had all those years, all the while she believed this was the case. Olivia was too humbled by it all to assume her friendship had been that high of quality -- it was Theia. Theia and her strength of responsibility.

“What happened with me and...with the Seeker, was not a long-standing circumstance. In fact, it only came to be within a day before I was set to depart. I was reeling, and…” she took a breath, laying her head back against the edge of the couch cushion. “Leliana saw it and struck, as she always does.”

“Do not blame Sister Leliana for something you, yourself could have prevented.” 

Olivia jerked her head up and eyed her, brow instantly furrowed at the sound of Theia dodging an opportunity to be caustic towards a woman who had covertly been curtailing her life. “Oh? You know my Advisors so well, then.”

“I do not. But I do know you,” Theia kept her eyes ahead, though her eyelids fluttered mostly closed. “I know you and I have shared everything, always. And now, I have to endure things like a woman I hardly know, and have every reason to be distrustful of, staring at me across a tent wearing the necklace that I used to swear you would rather die than give away. In Seeker’s armor, no less.”

“In Inquisition armor.”

“A woman who wears the armor from an Order that oversaw the crimes against us, an Order that wished to destroy us, can change into several new outfits, Olivia. But it will not absolve her. You know this; Maker, you were the one who taught me this.” She rolls her eyes and lifts her chin, scanning for something, anything. Fed up already.

“You do not know her. You do not know what--”

“I know that the first time I ever saw her it was standing next to a Divine, looking rather unamused by the assembled Mages in her presence, and I know that imagining her with my best friend, one of the bravest people I have ever known, terrif--”

“You think she is planning on assassinating me, Theia? Or somehow bleeding out every ounce of magic in my veins?” They stared at each other, defensiveness imbued in them both. How odd it was to miss fighting with a friend, even when the subject was so painful. 

“No,” Theia admitted, “I do not. Which, almost makes it worse to me.”

“Theia…”

“She loves you, Olivia. I can see that.” She peered down, her fingers tensely rubbing against one another. “Even when she refuses to divulge anything about it even when I ask.”

It was off-setting enough that Theia would insist Cassandra loved her, and thus invoke a stage in their time together yet to come to pass. End of days or not, being in love with someone was not an immediate thing for her. Yet, hearing the confirmation was far from what one might call ‘upsetting.’ Quite the opposite, actually. 

“You asked her?” Olivia widened her eyes, “Pff, I can only imagine her disbelief.”

“Oh?”

Olivia grins, mostly because she can’t help it. “Seeker Pentaghast is not the most open person, as you could probably tell. People do not...provoke her, or demand things of her very often or at all. You challenging her must have been quite the change of pace.”

“Evidently. However, I would not say it was that much of a change. From the look on her face, I would say she had her conditioning.”

Olivia glances at her, but the knowing look on Theia’s face prompts her to withdraw and hide her faint, self-conscious blush. 

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Theia chuckled soft and short, her body relaxing more against the couch and the floor. “It does scare me, though. It scares me thinking the one person you have decided to love may or may not be there for you in the ways you need. That she may not...understand things, when you need understanding. For as long as I have known you, you have fought every inclination to be a self-hating and deprecating Mage: to be wholly yourself with all your immense talents. I do not want to watch you throw yourself to the rocks after all you have been through.”

“I know better than to throw myself upon any rocks. You know that.”

Theia hummed a beat, blinking once slowly. “We all believe as much about ourselves, until we find our beds have become stone digging into our backs and water crashing atop us.”

“You have gotten so cheerful with age.”

Theia rolled her eyes again, half-hearted the second time around. “I am only mimicking the person you used to be. Surely, you can recall that much about your past before this all came about. I find it rather astonishing that such a woman like her would inspire warmth, but, to each their own.”

“Like I said, you do not know the person she is. I’ll admit, I used to be as sure as you were that she had nothing to offer but hardened excuses. But, Theia…” she scrambles to have the guts for honesty, maybe a little too much, “I would not be with her if she was not anything but remarkably different. She has saved my life more than once, been there for me when she had nothing to gain from it but my scathing opinions. She broke away from the Chantry and the Seekers when it was needed most. I think you’d find she has more sympathy for divergence than you or I even understand.”

Theia watched her, a torn look on her face, but ultimately dedicated to listening. She breathed for a moment, scanning from Olivia’s face to the plates of food before them. Half-eaten breads that were no longer steaming with freshness, cups of water mostly drank.

“Olivia, Mages do not interpret kindness and affection the way normal people do. It is not in us to feel worthy of exceptional regard, lest we start a Rebellion and murder swaths of Templars. When I loved Veronica, I loved her for everything I needed her to be. Not just someone I wanted to be mine, but...a friend, an ally, a sibling figure, a lifeline. My love for her was never wholly liberated to be just love, and for that, I almost lost myself. And I almost lost you.”

Olivia pursed her lips to cover for the way her throat dried just to hear her speak of the way things used to be. The way things yet lingered. 

“What are you trying to say?”

Theia exhaled through her nose, before reaching over and taking Olivia’s hand into hers. She held it atop Olivia’s thigh, and held tight. “What I am saying is, she deserves no merit for loving you in a way that respects your right to live and be who you are. You deserve to be loved, not worshipped or idealized. You are an exceptional Mage because you are powerful, not because you are good.”

“Theia...I know you mean well, but I am not--”

“Olivia, all it would take for her heroic devotion to disappear like sand in the wind, would be for you to raise your open palm and hold a knife across it. Perhaps even less than that: how would she feel if you embraced your fame? If you didn’t just allow people to fawn over the ‘Black Dove of Orlais’ but you reveled in it? You are no fool. You know, as I have known.”

“I wouldn’t think anyone would be comfortable with that, Theia, let alone a lover.”

“You think too conservatively. There are plenty of people in this world who would see the line you have to walk, and grant you compassion for it. But a Right Hand to the Divine?”

“You define her by her past like you and I don’t know the cruelties that come from such a practice. Can we not be more than that? Can she not be more than a Right Hand, or a Seeker?”

“We were never asked to be Circle Mages, Olivia. And we surely did not get a Grand Cathedral reception for it.”

Olivia took a rattled second to breathe. Arguing was not the plan, let alone in a such a way that compelled her to dizziness. Theia was right, she was but playing a reflection of the person Olivia once was. Sensible, if not a bit fatalistic. Someone who looked at the whole board, not just the position of several pieces. 

“I know I am testing your patience,” Theia interrupted her spinning thoughts with a second nudge. 

“You are being forthcoming with me. I need it.” Olivia replied with stringent detachment, doing her best to maintain some kind of logic to her reaction. “The Circle was a small, small place, Theia. Even when we were running, the world we imagined was too small. Everything is so much more complicated than we ever believed.”

“I know that. Still, my request is still thus: I want you to promise me no matter how large this world is, or whatever size she tells you it is, that you will not forsake yourself.”

It was not the ideal conclusion. For some reason, some fantastically ambitious reason, she had hoped to win her over. To convince her that Cassandra was the one for her, and to invoke celebration for it. They could talk and laugh about their memories, and Theia could make fun of her for being such a hardass. No. That was not to be born. 

“Okay.” Olivia held her hand right back. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” Theia replied, before leaning over and kissing her on the side of her forehead. Just like she used to. 

“I just wish you could just give her a chance. She is not the person you think she is.”

“I am sure she isn’t, but I need not search it out. She is your woman, not mine. You, on the other hand, are my dearest friend. My loyalty is to your condition.”

Unprecedented boundaries for the two of them. It had always been Theia pursuing romance, while Olivia hung back and remained supportive. How dire times had changed dire rules. 

“Yes, well, as is mine to yours. Which is why…” Olivia broke from her, rising to her feet with gusto and walking to her desk. There, two sealed scrolls rest squarely in the middle, which she picked up. One in each hand, she returned to Theia, but elected to sit off the edge of the couch this time. 

“...why I have a question for you, Agent.”

Theia scooted onto one hip, facing towards her with one hand planted on the rug under her. Brow low, head tilted away in suspicion. “What question is that?”

Olivia grinned, and rolled the scrolls outwards in her hands, revealing the seals. Two different colors, two differently styled Inquisition emblems in them. 

“Leliana’s Ravens, or the Commander’s forces?”

Immediately, Theia’s eyes enlarged, and her mouth opened in a soft rounded shape. “You...you are re-assigning me?”

“Yes. I have consulted with both Advisers. The mission, albeit unplanned and clumsy, also served as a test. One that impressed Sister Nightingale, but also qualified you for the more direct conflict.” She anchored her outstretched elbows on each thigh. “You can serve and improve under either.”

“But...but why would you…”

“Because, Theia.” Olivia leaned over a bit more. “You have always been there for me. As you said, you have backed my actions even when you did not want to. In that, you have become my sister. The least I can do, after almost ruining your chance at something good, is return the favor at long last.”

More deciphering eye contact, before Theia realized. Or, so said the look on her face that changed the second it all seemed to click. 

“You are re-assigning me so that I will have the freedom to pursue Ambassador Montilyet without it being a taboo. This is why they have been employing me more.”

Olivia took a breath. “I am defending your integrity, as any friend would do. As Leliana was only trying to accomplish for her friend. I am only sorry that I could not be her equal in fealty when it came to you, the first time. I will not make the same mistake twice. So,” she held them out a little further, “what’ll it be?”

Leliana was correct: there were things to be done that could rectify the mess they both had a hand in making. With this, Theia could be free to be happy again, and move on. She could work, and be appreciated. She could find the love that Olivia had managed to find for herself, to help carry the weight of the challenges they were to face. It would be what they always wanted for each other.

But, as Theia sighed and pulled herself up to sit beside her on the cushions, there was something amiss. Finding her place, she placed her fingers on top of Olivia’s and rolled them back over the scrolls, closing them.

“With respect, Inquisitor, I wish to stay where I am.”

Olivia blinked, and shook her head. “W-what? But then, that means that--”

“That I must keep my affairs in order. I know. Olivia, I am content with my place here. Josephine is an extraordinary person; one I am very fond of, but I first respect. Being at her dutiful service is more appealing to me than being severed from her and pushed to distraction. I am not here to just pine after women.” She rest her hand on the top of Olivia’s knee. “I am here to help my best friend save this world. If that does not come to pass, I have no business assuming there is a future to hope for with anyone, let alone someone like…”

“Like Josephine.”

She smirked. “Yes, like Josephine. And besides, that way, it is better for me. I can...I--”

“You can protect her.”

Theia cleared her throat, having half-choked at the sudden finish of her own confession done so quickly. But Olivia could only sit up tall and be smug. 

“I know you, Theia-Bird. Too well. Just remember Josephine can protect herself, and to let her do so. You are not on the run anymore, not everything is a threat you must make yourself a shield against.”

Finally, Theia was the one trying to stealthily hide pink in her complexion. She half-nodded and side-eyed the coffee table before them. “Yes, well, hm. Right.” She then rolled her shoulders back. “Anyhow, duties are duties. They will be the predominant occupants of my time, you and Sister Leliana can be sure.”

Olivia snorted, and tossed the scrolls to the cushion space between them. Well, all that kindness and full-circle bullshit, and she had only been rebuked. Rebuked by stirling character, no less. 

“You make me feel like a simpleton for making the time to care for someone, the way you talk, woman.”

“Oh, Olivia.” 

Theia’s hand on her knee moved to her shoulder. She then brought her into a hug. A much more honest and doting one. It felt so good, wrapping her arms under hers and holding her close. Home, as it had become to her all those years. Once they were skin and bones under each others’ hold, children growing into themselves. Now they were women, now they were killers. Now they were free. 

“I’m sorry, Theia.” She mumbled, chin resting on her best friend’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, too. I’m always going to want to take care of you. Maybe it is going to take me time to realize that is not my job anymore.”

Olivia closed her eyes and tucked her cheek against her. Her lips curled in, and the pressure of it all finally let go. 

“I still love you, Theia. Always.”

“And I love you.”

\--

13th Drakonis, 9:42

From the Office of the Ambassador

Inquisitor,

Leliana has informed me of expected information soon to land at Skyhold that may answer your inquiries as to the Duke’s plans. For this reason, I have scheduled our special advising meeting in two day’s time, to align with the Agent’s arrival. This will give you and I time to confer privately before we address the group. All invited members, including Cole, have agreed to the arrangement. 

I have also made plans for your lessons and council to begin this week. Dancing, dining, elocution, and gown fittings, for a start. I know we are short on time, but I am still partial to easing you into the process. 

On a less related note, thank you for allowing Lady Trevelyan to stay with my office. It is a particularly demanding time for me as well as my associated staff, and having her and her knowledge here will be of great reassurance to me.

Most sincerely,

Ambassador Montilyet

It was a kind note to receive at the end of the day, handed off after the courier found her hiding away in the stables. Too long had Peach gone un-visited in her stall, an issue Olivia was happy to resolve, letter folded and slid under the back of her belt while her hands were at work brushing out the mare’s russet coat. Peach happily foraged on the evening allotment of hay and played neutral listening ear, as she was so good at.

Dancing, dining, elocution, and gown fittings, for a start. _A start._ She chuckled to herself with each swipe of her brush hand from left-to-right against Peach’s side. She would do well to soak in the moment’s peace while she had it -- ‘a start’ was going to be anything but easy. 

“There you are.” An eased voice called from outside the stall doors. Cassandra, thank goodness. No couriers, or scouts, or friends getting into trouble and looking for a mediator. Just Cassandra, in her typical day armor, with her typical tough expression. 

“Hello,” Olivia replied, not stopping her chore. “You have found me and my impossible-to-find hideaway.”

The door unhitched as Cassandra pulled it open, sliding herself in. Peach poked her head up, causing her to reach a hand out to greet her. To that, Peach merely shook her nose and snorted, returning her focus onto her meal. 

Olivia giggled, and patted her horse on the shoulder. “She’s getting bored of you. That is good.”

“Never would I think I’d be flattered by such a phrase.”

“She took a bite out of a stable hand once for entering too early in the morning. Trust me, it is good.” Olivia then cut the brush across her thigh so as to clean it of the excess dust and dander, before rubbing her mare’s side again. “But we are learning to be nice, aren’t we?”

Cassandra smirked, and stepped through the thick bedded straw until she stood only a couple feet away from the Inquisitor. Olivia stood upright, and placed her hands to her hips. A long strand of her hair had escaped her bun, and hung on the side of her face. 

“Who do I owe the pleasure of your being sent here?” 

“Am I not allowed to seek your company on my own time?”

“Hm,” Olivia hummed, blowing hay flakes off her shoulder. “That remains to be seen.” She then walked away from her, cutting through the bedding with decisive steps until she reached the door wall. Tossing the brush over the side, where it landed in a wood toolbox of supplies, she dusted off her hands as she turned around to face her. 

Cassandra merely gathered her own hands behind her, keenly observant. “Perhaps I wondered how your day had gone, given your...responsibilities.”

“You mean, how did the talk with Theia go?”

Cassandra blinked a few times, mouth open with care as she chose her words. “Yes.” _Good choice, love._

Olivia chuckled briefly, closing the distance between them as she approached her. Her soft smile covered for the truth, the complete truth for which a decision had to be made. 

“I thought you did not care for what others thought of you?” 

“I don’t,” Cassandra shook her head, “but I do care about the results of conflicts which may or may not affect your work.”

“Theia will remain under the Ambassador’s service. Leliana and I have resolved our differences, but I am sure they will not be the last to need it. And...well, Theia and I are still who we are.”

“...Oh. And that is all?”

Olivia smirked again. “What, you expected worse?”

“I...do not know what I expected.” She let her arms fall, just in time for Olivia to come to her and take hold of her forearm. Cassandra stood still, but did not match or encourage it. Understanding why, Olivia looked back behind her, followed by the open spaces between each stall, to ensure no one was standing idly by and gawking. 

Then, her gaze returned to the one woman who could always captivate it. “You worry for me and my personal dramas. Just admit it,” she lightly teased in a low tone. 

“I thought that went without saying,” Cassandra grinned, matching the volume of her voice. Then, taking the chance, she let her hand comb back the rebellious strand of hair in Olivia’s face, tucking it behind her ear. So perfect of an interlude, if not for Peach following it up with a loud snort through her nose and kick of her back leg against the flies. 

“Can I see something?” Olivia asked as their attentions returned to each other. 

“What, must you check your horse’s farrier work, again?”

“Very funny,” Olivia raised a brow, before reaching for Cassandra’s collar. She didn’t need to go diving, or undress her. She just needed to slip two fingers under the slit that was held up by two tight bands. The chain wasn’t long enough to go any farther than...there, just at her chest bone. Once again Cassandra was an observant, statuesque woman, though her brows had rounded in surprise. 

Olivia smiled unevenly, feeling the pendant against the tips of her fingers. “You are still wearing it?”

“I, uhm,” the Seeker composed herself, clearing her throat as she took hold of Olivia’s suspended elbow, gently guiding her hand away from her. “Yes. I am.”

“I didn’t think you would put up with it for more than a few days.”

“Funny, that is what I used to wonder when I we first knew each other.”

“Agh! Well, if it is such a scourge, you can spare yourself the trouble.” She folded her arms, enacting her own particular style of pouting. One Cassandra undoubtedly had become used to by then. But, as she tried to turn around and stomp away, she found herself held by the wrist and detained by its touch. 

“Ugh!” she growls with playful resentment and a broad smile, coming back around and landing against her. “Seeker, you are out of line.”

Cassandra, apparently not done ‘overstepping’ started backwards, pulling her along towards the back corner. The hand on her wrist traveled down to grip her hand, while her other hand took hold of her waist. Still grinning just ever-so-slightly, but with warmth in her eyes. Giving in just a tad, Olivia pressed her forehead to hers and took hold of her sides. 

“I have missed you,” Cassandra whispered as a reward for her concession. 

“I missed you, too.” 

Cassandra then smiled, something that never failed to make Olivia feel as though she had conquered all adversities. Rather than tease or talk, she let herself go all in for a long-desired embrace, face tucked against her neck: the spot she always liked to find. Though, with a breastplate underneath, it was a bit less cozy. She would happily make do. Cassandra put her arms around her and felt strong and steady as anything. 

A long, grateful breath out her nose, and Olivia opened her eyes once more. “You like being like this, no?”

“This would be an interesting time to confess otherwise,” replied with a subtle chuckle in her chest.

“Ugh,” again, as Olivia knocked her half-hearted fist against the metal of her breastplate, “I will send my horse after you if you do.”

A second bubbling of hushed laughter as Cassandra pulled back just enough to look down at her. “I like it very much. Like I do wearing your pendant, even if you think I don’t appreciate the gifts given to me.”

“I did not say that, I--”

“Olivia,” she intervened, once again cupping her cheek. Stunning Olivia into listening -- which seemed to be the most efficient method. “And you say I worry too much.”

The Inquisitor rolled her eyes, mostly bereft with herself and the feelings rather than Cassandra, specifically. Her arms fell and let go of her, though she stayed close. “I--”

“Inquisitor, there you--Ah-Oh…!”

A flash of frantic motion -- mostly, getting herself away from Cassandra and into ‘platonic allies’ zone as fast as possible -- and who else could possibly be standing on the other side of the half-wall than Commander Cullen. Out of his office, for the once-every-two-months he did so. 

The women stood like beams with hands to themselves. Olivia rubbed her forehead like she was contemplating important, strenuous topics. Or something like that. 

“Yes, Cullen?” she asked, trying to have patience. 

He had a board in his hands with papers pinned to them. Reports, probably. He was wearing that cape still with the fur on the top. Did he just go everywhere with it, no matter the casual occasion? Alas, his clothing was only a temporary diversion from the awkward face he was giving. Awkward, and biting back a grin. 

“She asked you a question, Commander,” Cassandra backed up, arms folding across her chest as she stared him down. Suddenly, Cullen was the odd corner out in a triangular hostility.

“Oh, agh, forgive me,” he redressed, eyes flashing to his reports. “I just received words from Scouts just arrived at the gates. I thought you would like to know the Agents returning with intelligence on the Duke have been spotted on the outskirts.”

Her chest leavened and stayed stiff. “Oh. That is good. I was hoping to hear word...tonight...at the council meeting…”

He sidestepped, appearing to already desire an escape to the barn and out its main doorway. “I was already out and planned to have a word with Master Dennett, and thought you would…” he glances at Cassandra, who is still displeased. “Hm. Last time I see fit to kill two birds with one stone. Good evening, then.” Cullen did not waste time eliciting a proper goodbye. Gone as quick as he showed up. Thankfully.

Olivia slapped her hands down on her thighs. “Well, good news! Agents are in the mountains! Bless us,” she sorely joked as she reached to scratch her horse’s rump. Her coat was still releasing layers to acclimate to the spring weather. It would take more time with a brush, and good ol’ fashioned sun. Yes, just think about the horse, think about practical things like…

“We should probably discuss...this,” Cassandra, as expected, went straight to the heart of the matter.

“Ah,” Olivia’s hand stopped, and she leaned against Peach with her shoulder. “Could you spare me the experience of doing it in a stable?”

“Hm,” Cassandra affirmed, before walking towards the stall door. “Yes. But, soon, if possible.”

“I can make the time.” A confident statement to make in light of all that Josephine was going to do to bulk up her routine. She followed after her, keeping back so as to not recreate the scene they just endured. Out and around the door, she did the honors of re-fastening it behind them. Peach, still eating away, spared no grievance for her lack of company. That left the two of them standing out in the open. But it was no problem now. 

“How soon would you…”

“I have patrol tonight, and more training with recruits tomorrow. Perhaps after then?”

“I have to prepare for the meeting Josephine and I put together for the Winter Palace. I will likely spend all afternoon with her tomorrow debriefing.”

Cassandra cradled her arms again as they left the stall aisle. All-in-all, it is a wonder why would broach the subject. If they were satisfied, and understood what was between them, why did publicity have to be a concern? Olivia wanted to ask, however everything about Cassandra’s face and body language said it was of consequence. 

“Tomorrow evening, then?” 

Olivia nodded, and stopped when they reached the double-doors of the barn. “Yes. That would work.”

“Good,” Cassandra peered over at her. A nervous grin, and thoughtfulness behind it. Olivia smiled back, trying to disarm the jitters, though they did not do as potent of work as she hoped. Cassandra only corrected herself and what yet lingered of her lighthearted attitude.

“I...should probably go eat and then depart for the outpost.” 

“Oh, okay,” Olivia’s gaze shifted to either side, before back to her. Trying not to seem too disappointed or like the proverbial carpet was being tugged either which way underneath her feet. “Um. Please be safe, Cassandra.” Maker, would she ever escape the anxious build-up towards risky conversations, or would this become how she’d defeat Corypheus? Her power of individual debate?

“I will,” she replied sincerely, before touching Olivia’s face one last time. Fleeting, barely enough for her to feel the warmth of it as her fingers glided up her cheek. “You as well, Inquisitor.” That was all before the walked away. It was terrible to have her go, but, it was consoling to watch her leave...consoling. Yes, that was the word. Olivia stood there and continued to be consoled, as dusk was turning the day to night around her. Sparse firebugs in the air, surrounding the mounted stable lanterns. The comfort only sunk in so far. 

_I should talk to her. About what Theia really said. I should talk to her. That would make sense. Ugh, but...but what if she doesn’t say what I need her to say…_

She slunk back to busying herself with barn chores for just a while longer, Blackwall's unfinished woodworking project -- what looks to be some kind of druffalo figurine -- catching her eye as she strides on past. Skyhold may have just weathered one storm, but surely another would be soon on the winds.


	80. Problem Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia and Josephine find time to prepare for Halamshiral one-on-one, and tensions continue to grow within the Inquisitor's conscience. After one meeting concludes, another commences, and her and Seeker make decisions on the boundaries of their relationship in the public eye. Boundaries? More like safe-keeping defaults.

  
8th Harvestmere, 9:20 Dragon

Dearest Madame,

I hope this little note finds you in warm, diverted spirits. The autumn is quite the celebratory time for us, no? It is hard to find time in the week for anything that is not elegant revelry. I can hardly empty my hands of all our family’s invitations to various events and socials. We are to entertain no less than fifteen of them before our Uncle’s birthday. 

I should not waste the parchment on simply regaling you with our business, dear sister. There are plenty of newsworthy items to discuss, after all. For one, I finally visited our treasured friend Apolline at her and her husband’s estate. Ruben, if you recall, was rather gauche and rugged for a man of his station; I regret to report he has hardly changed since we last saw him at our cousin, Consetta’s Villa. It is difficult to believe that is six years past. 

Apolline is lively as ever. She wished anyone and everyone to meet her little daughter, Berenice. By the way she flaunted her in the city streets whilst we shopped was quite the adorably doting affair. The little girl, herself? She is rather captivating, in her own way. Not the prettiest, nor the most eloquent for her age. Yet, with a pretty head of golden curls and pointed nose, she looks a great deal like her Mother and her family. For her sake, that is a blessing handed from the Maker himself.

It is fraught times to be raising children. With the Court in such peculiar disarray, who knows who and what may conquer new ground. If there was ever a time for ambitions to take hold, it would be now.

Oh, you know me, Renata. my tongue is so sweetly tempted to say more. Do write to me soon, and send any news as to the whereabouts of your sons and daughters abroad. I do wish to know of their exploits. 

Sincerest love,   
Lady Jacqueline Legrand  


\--

When Josephine Montilyet prepared for a mission in which her expertise dominated, she did not waste time or space. The War room was a prime stage exemplifying such: in addition to the foremost table with map and all, she had another broad table brought in so that the logistics of the upcoming voyage to Halamshiral could be properly planned. Name cards, family ancestral charts, copies of news and pamphlets dictating salacious gossip: it was all accounted for, on a circulating basis, from the time her and the Inquisitor had a chance to exchange words about the Winter Palace. 

“Must I memorize all these names?” the Inquisitor asked as she stood with arms folded before the spread. 

Josephine, feet planted by the Council map behind Olivia, was still writing notes for herself. Everything was going according to plan for the day -- a rarity which must be enjoyed for all it could provide. “Inquisitor, it is as if you are unfamiliar with our work practices, or are trying to weasel your way out of them. Either way, you know the result.”

Olivia relented and picked up a name placard closest to her. Pinned on a small metal stand that looked much like a pendant or brooch one would wear on a day gown during the Spring. 

“What is troubling you, Your Worship?” Josephine added, generous with her attentions as ever. 

“I am merely…” she searched for the word, but too many flooded to choose from. Overwhelmed, intimidated, concerned that her attentions were being distracted from the true threat that lay before them, just to name a few. No one single definition or turn-of-phrase could please it all. As she stood stumped, the Ambassador came up from behind to stand at her right side. 

“Surely, you must know you can express any and all concerns with me, Inquisitor.”

“I know that very well, and I am grateful for it, Josephine,” Olivia said, setting the placard back down where it was before. Placed in diametric alignments with several over family names in accordance to affinities and alliances currently in play among the Orlesian elite. Her first question was a pathetic one in light of the truth: not only would she have to learn names, but relationships. Relationships, and business dealings, and economic concerns. Everyone in Orlais has a motivation for every kind of decision, if only they wished to search and furnish it. Olivia knew this all-too-well.

In the back of her mind, a child’s laugh cut into the currents of pragmatic, mature thought processes. _"Olivia, you slouch! Your friend Mademoiselle Picard sits so much prettier, do you see? Sit as she does."_

“Inquisitor?” Josephine, again, coming around to stand on the long end of the Halamshiral table. The Capitol table, as Olivia has begun calling it. 

“Yes, Josephine?” 

“Agh…” Josephine starts, but places down her curated reports onto the tabletop. This freed up her hands so that she could link her fingers together, thumb-and-forefinger pinching down. “It is not my place to seek insight into your personal dealings. However, upon reading reports from the Dales, and witnessing you in person, I have to wonder how this is all impressing upon you. It is not lost on me that one of the first conversations you and I have ever done was about your life as an Orlesian. A daughter of a reputable family, no less.”

“My family was not reputable. They were up-and-coming. There is a difference, one which you never go a day without knowing if you are the heir-apparent of such a family.”

“That may be the case, Your Worship, but in my experience working in the Imperial Court, there is hardly a family that has accomplished their standing by being anything other than up-and-coming. Yet ‘up-and-coming’ is a phrase that signifies a path by which one may regress backwards, does it not?”

One of the most clever and articulate women. Always and without reproach. That first conversation in Haven, though mortifying, was easier because it was with Josephine. Even in the infant stages of their regard for each other, it was clear she knew how to assuage tense circumstances. A blessing as well as a bittersweet talent. Hard won. Olivia went closer to the table edge, and pressed her fingers down on it. Rough wood grain that had been smoothed fast and efficiently for immediate demand. Their carpenters were good. Her head hung a little lower as she distracted herself with the texture, past all the papers and ink-dried surnames. 

“Corypheus must be stopped. If his plan is to use the Empire as his gigantic kindling for a blaze that could consume all of Thedas, it is our responsibility to ensure he does not succeed.”

“So, it does not affect you at all that this, in a rather direct way, aligns with--”

“Josephine,” Olivia interrupted, against her affection for her, “Orlais was where I was birthed and brought up. It is not, nor ever was, a place where I developed devotion of my own choosing.” She glanced, only to see Josephine sympathetically frowning but otherwise unphased. 

“I was only hoping to provide comfort to you, as is my responsibility as your Diplomatic Advisor.” Her words are apologetic, but her tone assuring. Confident. She wasn’t regretting saying as much, only that it was not successful in the altruistic way it usually was. 

It is a comfort to not have to think about it. 

“I know that.” Olivia then turned to the side, in Josephine’s direction, but stayed put on her square of stone flooring. “I am...I am only trying to process all that I must, to the best of my ability. It is difficult to remember this is all necessary for the goal we have; memorizing Orlesian nobility for the sake of preserving peace in the face of a corrupted Magister and his legion is not the shortest jump to make, Ambassador.”

“No, but it is one we must succeed in performing,” Josephine grinned, waiting a beat before approaching her. When she did, it was to place a kind hand on Olivia’s shoulder and turn them both towards the spread before them. 

“Here, think of it this way: in the next several days, proportion these into quarters,” she holds her hand out in a slicing motion across the divided sections. “In each quarter, focus on the basic details until you can branch out further. Then, once you have mastered that, you may move onto the next section. Before long, they will all be interconnected, branches you may use for your mind to navigate them all. If you stumble, simply redress the smaller circle you have made, and grow outward once more. You see?”

_Bless you, Josephine Montilyet._ Olivia managed to ease herself, a hand to her hip as she followed along. It did make things easier for her scholastic-prone mind to deconstruct. If books could best be read in chapters, families and their functions could best be broken down into parts. Branches of one, messed up, demagogue-prone tree. 

“Yes, I see,” she affirmed as she leaned onto one hip. “You have proven more instructionally competent than any governess or Circle tutor ever was to me, Lady Montilyet, I hope you know.”

Josephine smirked, and let her hand fall. “I seek not to compete with precedent, Inquisitor, but to improve upon present demands so that we may construct a promising future. I will admit, this has…” she released a breath, “it has not been particularly soothing, these plans to approach the Imperial Court.”

“That is an opinion, of many, that we share.”

“Yes, Inquisitor, but it is also a strategic observation. In spite of your estrangement, I should not have to tell you of the perils that which we must face.”

Olivia once again linked eyes with her, only then was Josephine’s nerves visible through the veneer of ever-prepared positivity. Even so, there was no room for pitying such a woman, or such a Diplomat, for it. 

Her thumb ground against the side of her belt. “Were you able to organize the materials that I requested?”

“Yes, I have. I was hoping we could…” Josephine hesitated, and shook her head, “nevermind, allow me.” She went back towards the council table. Once there, she found a leather folder from under a pile of materials, scrolls and notes mostly. She soon returned and set them down with care. Her spread fingers touched the cover, posed as she looked back to the Inquisitor.

“Are you certain you wish to engross yourself in this, Your Worship? It is nothing which we have not prepared for or taken into account.”

“How bad can it possibly be?” Olivia swallowed, taking it all in stride as well as she could before the reveal. She knew full well Josephine must have long-studied what she had brought force, despite her downplaying. It was her turn now to do the same.

Rolling her lip, Josephine nodded and straightened up. She backed away, to allow the Herald herself to open it. One last pause of last-minute deliberation, and she sent her hand to it and flipped it open in one swift, irreverent motion. The inertia sent several slices of paper sliding out from their confines, some folded, others not. Various colors of brown, white, and grey depending on the source of the materials. Not all parchment was created equal, but the messages they could convey did a great deal to even the Game. 

Her senses bowed it all: hands shifting and spreading apart pamphlets, flyers, and ink drawings. Some original, others copied by Agents with creative skills when pressed. On one, a caricature portrait of a fair-haired woman, a left hand crumbling like sheet rock, held up in the air while her bleeding right hand held onto a Chevalier’s helmet. Around her silhouette were writings, scribbles of fodder. 

_“The Herald of Andraste, Holier Than The Men She Poked Holes Into.”_ The only line she read to herself out the entire page, before she slid it out from the pile. 

The next one was another portrait, a woman’s face dripping in black. It formed the shape of a mask around her eyes and browline. Taking the place of what would be an Orlesian mask, a family mask. The caption below it, written in fine script, read “She Who Bleeds Black.” The rest of them all had similar messages and agendas. It was not the Inquisitor, not the Herald of a Prophetess, that people had remained captivated by. Imaginations, so it seemed, had become hungry for who she was in other lifetimes. 

“These are strictly gathered from Orlais, yes?” she asked, turning another page. Expressionless as possible.

Josephine took a step. “Yes, Your Worship,” said with regret, “if not collected, sighted. Extracted with the utmost discretion.”

“Hah,” Olivia smirked with a melancholic grin, “Maker forbid they find out I consume my own worst reputation as light reading.”

“That is not to say their position has its merit. Much like these selections, Your Worship, your enemies conjure a great deal of libel for their own sake, and not to fortify the truth.”

Another page of a woman in a black down, hips and shoulders drawn wide to make her in the shape of a dramaticized hourglass. Hourglass, or dropping path of blood. Whatever it was to mimic, it sunk into her stomach like sour wine. She turned it over to hide it from her vision, and ended her sorting. The lined up images and writings all presented a curated group of slanderous fetishes any decent person would revile. Alas, for the nation she came from, it was all the facets of an everyday hobby. 

“I suppose I should see it all regardless, if I am to know what I am walking into. Orlesians do not see lies, merely artistic interpretations of the way things really are.”

“That does not mean the people that come from it have to also stay unchanged.”

Josephine’s courteous smile made it all-the-more easy to believe at face value. If only tough inner-battles could be comforted so readily all the time. Olivia sidestepped to her and hooked her hand around the Ambassador’s satin-sleeved arm, before they both returned their eyes to the table. 

“What would I do without you, Ambassador?”

“You would have to do quite a lot, Inquisitor,” she replied, patting her hand, “rest assured, if you stand the chance of boredom in your current occupation, you would not be so inclined in mine.”

“I believe that.”

“There is but one addendum I would add to your otherwise clever wisdom, however.”

“Mm, yes?”

Josephine took a breath. “Orlesians know lies as well as they see the weapons and poisons they conceal under garments: they may not always see them, but they know how best to feel for them. For that, we must be ready. If it is a demise we must avoid at all cost, it is one at the hands of our own tools should someone find out where to press a strong hand.”

Her opinion, albeit given in a lighthearted guidance, sent a chill down Olivia’s spine. If she would ever be ready to enter back into the den of lions she once knew, it certainly did not feel like it. For her sake, that was a sentiment she’d have to keep to herself for as long as she could, and hope to be proven wrong. Somehow, someway. 

\--

A couple of hours after, and Olivia dismissed Josephine to catch the last bit of supper and have time for herself. Whether she would follow direction or not remained to be seen, but the least the Inquisitor could do was ensure she would not stay hulled up in the Council room spinning politics just for her. However, in her seclusion, Olivia also found little-to-no impulse control. The folder of lewd and liscencous works she and the Ambassador had tidied up once again found themselves opened and displayed for her singular appraisal. Within a day or two’s time, she would have to listen to whatever it was the Agent incoming from abroad would have to say about Duke Gaspard’s intentions for her, and whether or not they had things in common with these disgusting papers. The past that had been stalking her was gaining ground. 

_“We be but lost if we wait for salvation on the wings of a Black Dove -- the only peace she harbors is that which comes from a crypt.”_

A pamphlet, with a half-baked attempt at a manifesto: _“Mages serve no society, no nation. They serve themselves. If she has proven herself an assassin on our people, who is to say she has been convinced to save them?”_

Another drawing of her with her figure drenched in black, with eyes cut out: _“The Herald of Andraste is a murderess. She is dressed in darkness so as to conceal the blood her body doth amass.”_

Josephine had warned her. Leliana had warned her. They all had warned her: her head, her life, her person, would be scrutinized without end. She had girded herself for attacks on her nationality, her sex, her identity as a Mage: they had come for her, flooding and flying from every direction. Nonetheless, to see such effort changing the vision of who she was disparaged her to the bone. 

Finding herself awash in it all, she bent over the table and planted her elbows. Hanging her head into her hands, for once she wishes it could be daylight. Daylight so that she could step out into the sun and feel warmth in her skin, and not like she was haunting the fortress halls as the midnight mistress all these pages depicted her as. 

_I should not have asked Josephine for this. I should have--_

The door cracked open, echoing. From the other side, a dark-dressed Seeker stepped in and around it, shutting it behind her. Olivia peered up, but did not linger in her stare, instead returning her head to its hanging shape while Cassandra walked down the line. 

“Perhaps we should have made clear where our meeting was to take place, before we parted ways,” the Seeker remarked, stopping in front of the war table. 

Olivia pushed herself up finally. Thoughtlessly self-preserving, she began to clean up and stack the pages back into one cohesive stack while Cassandra was still far enough away not to decipher for herself what they were, or why Olivia was all alone grueling over them. At least, not without asking.

“My apologies, Josephine and I made a great deal of progress. I decided to stay behind and practice names and notes.”

“Is that all?” Cassandra was watching her inch for inch, and she didn’t have to look up to know. The pure sensation of it while she placed the papers back into the thick hide cover was enough.

“Yes, it is.” 

She closed the cover back on top, picking it up so as to find the laces loose and twist them around. Her eyes were heavy, straining from excessive reading of fine print in a room that wasn’t nearly as lit as it should have been.All the while, Cassandra rounded the first table on her way to her. Even after a long day, she walked with subtle vigor. Olivia could get lost in the flustered feelings of being nearer to her, even as she concerned herself with tucking away the folder and appearing attentive. Once her hands were free, she walked around to meet her in the space between the Halamshiral and Council tables, boots scuffing the ground a little heavier than usual. Once face-to-face, she gave up a smile. 

“How was patrol, then? I have not seen you since I spotted you on the grounds this afternoon.” 

“It was uneventful, fortunately. The thaw has been making things tedious, of course,” Cassandra sighed quietly as she folded her arms. “I believe we saw the last of it. Traveling outward should be easier for our larger forces.”

“That is good, because we will be doing so soon.”

 

“You and the Council have decided on a day of departure, I take it?”

Olivia nodded. “Yes. Ten days from now. Less if we are able. We will not be traveling as heavy as we were at Adamant, of course,” she said as they both pivoted towards the direction of the map, approaching it side-by-side. The path outlined by the Commander from Skyhold to Halamshiral easy to fixate on. “It will take us another week to get there, by estimates. That will land us at the Winter Palace just in time for the night of the Ball, which is good; I do not want us in a single location for too long.”

“I agree,” Cassandra said, still and composed. “From what Leliana has sent me, we are wise to keep our forces limited...unfortunately.”

“The place will be crawling with interceptors and spies. The less foot traffic we cause, the better. Besides, our greatest assets are the allies we are allowed to bring into the event, no?” she smiled meekly, arm against her propping her hand to her mouth, fingers curled and rubbing together. Cassandra met it with stone-faced skepticism, as was her specialty. 

Then she sighed heavy. “So this will be as we expected, a fight from the inside out. Some things never change.”

“With what, the Inquisition, or the Empire?”

“Both, to different extents.” Cassandra drew nearer to the table, until she shifted around and leaned back against it in order to face her. “Finesse is a tiresome luxury, and yet here we are, dancing around names and reputations when the world is at stake. And for what? So that the Empress does not cause us further liability than she already does.”

Olivia exhaled deep through her nose and took a step closer, eyes veering towards the ground as her feet swung. “Cassandra, Ambassador Montilyet is working very hard to ensure we do not fail by virtue of misunderstanding the field for what it is, not what we wish it could be. I sympathize, but,” she spun and leaned against the edge next to her, shoulders only slightly apart, “I must heed her on this.”

“I know that.” Cassandra’s indignant stare re-locked on the table with the placards and little flags of familial crests. “You forget it was a field I had to observe as well.”

“I do not forget, I simply know this is not your chosen area of knowledge.”

“That is not entirely true.”

Olivia raised a brow. “Oh? Is this your way of telling me you not only sneered at people at Soirees, but you elbowed them on your way to the door?”

A huff of a chuckle, and Cassandra’s chin tucked. Forlorn, in a way. “Very funny. You have made your point. Maker, I can only hope they will heed the danger or stay out of the way. Such are the two best outcomes.”

“Mmph,” Olivia nudged her, “things are more complicated than that, you know.”

“It is not completely outlandish for me to hope in times like these surreal events come to pass?”

Olivia laughed softly, rubbing the side of her neck. “Unfortunately, no. Why not reach for the stars, then? Say, Orlais sinks by the reverse weight of all its injustices against others, deep down into the ground, where it becomes its own penitent mass grave from which the world it besmirched can spring forth, reborn?” A little intense, but tiredness only bred two moods for the Inquisitor: dejected, and hyper-engaged. Nothing in between when it came to her opinions of her attitudes, no matter the company. Cassandra grinned, but not out of sympathy. Cautious endearment, more like, as she tucked one ankle behind the other. 

“You would be surprised how little abundance could come from such soil, Olivia.” 

“Yes, well,” Olivia broke from the table in favor of standing against her, chest to chest as her hand snuck around Cassandra’s waist, “I can think of other happenings that have not been nearly as abundant as I would like.”

Cassandra’s arms took hold of Olivia’s sides. Her eyes half-closed as she met her gaze. “Yes, like discussion.”

Olivia groaned as her head fell to rest on Cassandra’s shoulder, a soft clinking sound of metal. “Discussion, discussion, discussion,” she muttered.

“Is this your way of telling me our meeting is to be delayed?”

“This, my love, is me complaining.”

Cassandra pressed her hand to the side of Olivia’s neck, thumb rubbing once against the hinge of her jaw. An act of gracious solace, so simple, but the regard it showed was louder and more profound than it seemed on the surface. 

“Let us get to the bottom of it, then. We are both people who prefer to have our personal choices removed from the public. What are we to make of instances like yesterday?”

Olivia leaned off of her. Yesterday. Cullen’s remorse mixed with his penchant for light teasing. The instinctive resentment it bred in her gut. All things considered, his was the more benign of tresspasses. What was he going to do, sit around in the tavern, toast to his grand reveal of their tryst, and tell it like a war story? No. Cullen was many things, but he was no impervious mouth. 

She rubbed her arm as she contemplated. Cassandra was right: to her, privacy was sacrosanct. What little she had left. If her evening leading up to that point had proven anything, it was that any concealments she occupied was now worth its weight in gold. Their relationship, most of all, carried its own priceless measurement. 

_The Right Hand, and the murderess Black Dove. What a pairing._

“I think it best if we maintain discretion. Skyhold is small, and it is hard to keep things to ourselves as it is.”

Cassandra’s posture rounded. “Skyhold is one thing. Our forces, our people, our contacts.”

“Yes, and from their mouths to the world’s ears.”

“...You are right.” That was all. Even when her face said there was more, she only gave three words. 

This was one of the few times when their discourses did not splinter them. Still, the full extent of Olivia’s particular reasons burned between to be said: she was not just protecting herself as the Inquisitor. It was not simply a safe measure. Yet, every chance she had, Theia’s advice still sung loudly in her head. For all she had looked to Cassandra for -- survival, guidance, tough advice to swallow -- she hadn’t gotten used to looking at her as a lover she could lose. With papers and drawings merely six feet away from her back that could outline exactly why the Seeker should reconsider her choice in women, there might as well have been a dagger digging into Olivia’s spine.

“Besides,” she said as she placed a hand on Cassandra’s shoulder, “I can think of nothing more unsavory for us to deal with in addition to all of this, than dodging everyone and their voyeurism.” A logical point, but redundant. They already had to do so. The unsavoriness was already tasted. What she should have said was a warning against feeding it more than they already did by virtue of existing. 

Cassandra smirked with a brief smile flashing across her face. “It is likely for the best. But this also makes it more difficult for you.”

“Oh? In what way?”

The smile returned. “If I am to be pursued, as a woman rightfully demands,” her tone a touch more playful as her gaze wandered down to Olivia’s body, “avoiding publicity only complicates tactics.” Goodness, she was like honey and spice on the ears and eyes when she wanted to be. Even more so when she reached and pulled her in by the waist of her breeches, bringing her against her once more. Olivia’s nerves simmered, body complicitly limp from the waist down.

“Hmm,” she purred, back arching, “that is an astute observation, Seeker. Maybe I have longed for a challenge worthy of my skills.”

“If you have found a shortage of those around here, surely you are not looking hard enough.”

“Worthy and difficult are not always synonymous, you know,” her mouth wandering in further with a teasing grin, tongue bit back as her eyes drifted closed. Cassandra held still, seeming to accept the advance, until her fingers hooked onto the edge of Olivia’s chin, halting her in place. Her eyes flashed open.

Then, a low and shuddering whisper. “To me, Inquisitor, they most often are.”

Olivia abandoned her kissing attempt and instead gave into the consolation of their foreheads landed softly together. It was fast becoming her favorite thing to do. Like the stables, only better and less rushed. 

“Cassandra, I…” she let out in an hushed impulse. It was brimming to be said. Please just tell me you’d still love me if you were faced with the consequences of it. It seemed so silly of a wonder, considering she had made the choice before. They had made the choice, together. If only she could believe that once, just one moment of agreement to risk it all, could be enough.

“Olivia, it is alright,” Cassandra replied before she had the chance to finish the sentence. If she would answer it, that is. Olivia opened her eyes, and found her looking, with steeled sincerity; she lifted her brow and gave a questioning hum in return, for which Cassandra only held her tighter.

“Maybe you should undertake your own best advice for coping with pressure,” she added, mouth ticking up on one side. Just as Olivia was about to ask a second time for clarification, she felt her hand that had fallen to her side be moved by a guiding hold down the side of her forearm, all the way down to her palm and fingers, which became laced together with Cassandra’s in a firm, unapologetic embrace.

_Hold my hand. If nothing else, just that. Just this._ The act moved her, in more ways than she could eloquently describe as it happened. Her feet felt on the ground again, her head rescued from the storm clouds. 

“Effective, but rather impractical for times of battle, don’t you think?” she queried as she lifted her head up and to as to look upon her. 

Cassandra brought her hand up to her mouth, and pressed her lips to the back of it. Then, she let them return to their place beside their hips. There was a look in her. A brief, temporal fascination. Whatever it was, Cassandra must have let it recede, for she only gave Olivia what she needed to hear and nothing more. 

“That reminds me. I wish to request more time from you.”

“More time? What, between my dancing lessons, etiquette tutoring, Tower studies, diplomatic--”

“Yes, more time,” Cassandra’s grip grew snug around her, as if such assertive intervention could enhance persuasion. “Not nearly as much time as your other dealings.”

“Hm, alright, you have my attention.”

Cassandra grinned, and her hand traveled lower than the small of Olivia’s back. It gave her an exciting clue as to what her desire was. Finally, something to look forward to from talks of negotiation and--

“You need to get back to sparring. You have not made it out to training these last several mornings due to your work with the Ambassador and your friends. I read reports from the Dales that you were less regimented in your practice than you typically are, despite the Warden also being with you. Might I suggest a change in mentor?”

_Oh. Well, shit._

Olivia became a bit short of breath, her shoulders tensed. It was just under a week since she returned. The Graves and their sore spot in her psyche were both still fresh. Of all the tasks and endeavors she had undergone whilst there, sparring and keeping up with combat skills in non-life-threatening forms was not one of them. She had trusted that Blackwall’s company would provide it, but, the situation did not pan out the way she devised.

“You have shown little interest in my fighting skills when it is not using me as a demonstration on what not to do with a sword. I am strong with my magic and my blade work alone.” she shrugged off the anxiety as best as she could, weight shifting from foot to foot. 

Cassandra shrugged. “I may not be able to advise you on magic, or even the use of your blades. There are other forms of combat you must improve upon besides work with a sharp weapon or otherwise. And...if it gives us time for more discussion, then I do not see the harm.”

“Discussion.”

“You liked discussion, once. Have your curiosities and temper been satisfied at long last?”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Never.”

“Hmph,” the Seeker smirked, “then so be it. We start tomorrow morning at dawn.” She then slid out from between the table and the Inquisitor, sauntering with smugness back around, leaving Olivia to fall forward apathetically. 

Groaning with her head tilting back, she clamped her palms on the table rim. “I train cavalry at dawn, remember?” 

Cassandra kept walking, slower, but still going as she looked back over her shoulder. “The Commander is more than willing to oversee that in your stead.”

“You have consulted with Cullen so as to commandeer my schedule?”

Making it to the door, Cassandra spun around and took hold of the knob. She pushed, but was met with resistance as the hinging creak of the old-fashioned, unused locking mechanism deployed. Olivia watched like a hawk, and held back a triumphant smile, a tell of the way her fingers did her enchantment.

“I asked a question, Seeker.” Olivia scuffed her boot heel against the ground. She stood tall, fingers skinning the wood as they slid back towards her. Cassandra’s chest leavened, and she lowered a brow. Sparring may have already begun.

“I may have spoken with him about the incident in the stables.”

“You ‘may’ have? Demureness does not become you.”

A pause, followed by a sigh. “Fair enough. I did meet with him. The subject of your training and preparation was the predominant concern.”

Olivia nulled her tongue around her bottom teeth as she proceeded to round the table herself. Hips swaying with intention to have allure interplay with her argument. “That is all,” she repeated, while watching Cassandra step away from the door. “Is there anything else you’d like to dictate to me, then?”

Cassandra threw in a futile request. “Would it be too much to ask for an unlocked door?”

“Yes.”

“Olivia.”

The Inquisitor’s hands went to her hips as she stopped beside the war map, and she gnawed on the side of her lip. “I will exchange an unlocked door for another locked one, with you and I once again on one side of it. Later tonight, when the Hall has emptied from supper.”

Her smile lingered. “You will need your rest, Inquisitor, if we are to--”

Olivia approached her, only a couple yards still separating them. “I will rest when I am dead and gone, Cassandra. Until then, I desire at least some ability to decide how I exert my energies. That is, of course, if you are fit for the test.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “Fit for the test?”

“I said what I said,” she retorted, chin tilting.

Cassandra’s lips pursed as if she were holding back temptation too steep for her standards. One could only hope she had done her evening prayers if any. She would be without them now.A second time, her hand landed on the door handle. 

“Then consider the start of your re-conditioning moved up to tonight, Inquisitor.”

Olivia tilted her chin, before her hand waved lazily in the direction of the door. Another crick and crack of metal rusted against wood, and her business was done. “Excellent. I love training in the dark.”

Cassandra gave a pointed look, but left without more argument. Shutting the door once again left Olivia in solitude, though it was sugared by the addition of something to look forward to. Cassandra’s taken liberties were annoying to her ego, but a blessing to her personal hungers for plans not made out of politics or calamity. And, admittedly, she was out of shape.

Lightning flashed through the arching, multi-colored windows. Nothing else, just its blinding brilliance: no wind, no crashing of rain or sleet. No trembling. So menacing for a spring storm. Sparing a moment to investigate, she went to the far right pane of glass and pressed her hand to it. It was cold and slightly dusted to the touch. A second branch of light stretched across the sky, making her flinch onto the balls of her feet. Beneath her fingers, rapid heat flared to banish the coldness. The static surged up and across the hairs on her arms and neck, into her hair where flyaways lifted into the air. Just like the first time Theia and Veronica had ever dared her to press a hand to an old, cracked window during a torrential downpour. The kind Ostwick was so famous for during the winter months. 

_“See? We are like the children of the elements. We are so powerful, even the lightning consorts with us.”_ One of the most beautifully poignant things Veronica had ever said in her presence, and with such exuberance. She genuinely believed it and was right to. They were powerful.

Removing her hand and holding it before her own eyes out and slightly cupped, she rubbed along the smoothness of her skin. What if the girl in the Dales Chateau had done something similar? Pressed her hands to glass, to fireplace mantles, to cooking pots. What if she had put them to the surface of the fountain water and wished for it to be ice? What if she, at one point in her unfortunate and short life, told herself she was a beacon of nature before everything went awry? 

Her fingers clamped into a gentle fist, her eyes wandering along the black sleeves on her arms that attached to leather-bound shoulders and rigid, high collar around her neck. A neck for a mask-less face that livened and beamed, pondering the chance to show Orlais just what happened when they do not successfully do away with problem daughters.


	81. Alternative Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Select allies meet in the Council room to discuss Halamshiral, wherein important but painful questions about the Inquisitor's leadership persona come to a head. More is set in motion as to who she will be, and what she will do, when the time comes to face the Court -- thanks also to a chance to collaborate once more with Enchanter Naomi. Courier notes between the Herald and Seeker take an interesting, though fleeting, turn.

  
Full Field Report as Of 16th Drakonis

Agent Alias: Lotus 

The attached evidence serves to confirm our lead. I spent two weeks in the field watching movements and having myself and my men surveil the Duke while he was stationed in the plains region. The following is my brief response to Sister Nightingale’s leads:

\- The Duke’s interest in the Inquisitor: confirmed.

Notes: The Inquisitor is a woman. A woman who has done things that some might say have taken advantage of her being a woman. Do not shoot the messenger on this one, I sympathize with Her Worship. Unfortunately the Duke and his men are not. They are, however, quite enthused. They love repeating the same stories of her fabled conquests over and over; the more wine is poured, the more they are brought up.

\- The Inquisitor’s background has been investigated: confirmed.

Notes: The name “Sinclair” is not all-together unfamiliar to them. The Inquisitor’s father was a trained as a Chevalier, of similar age to most of them. If he comes across someone who brags about having known him through service or otherwise, he damn-near interrogates them. Unfortunately for him, most did not know he had a daughter. If you ask me, they just lacked a care until she turned up wielding magic, blades, a bloody Inquisition, and a pretty face. Once again, no offense intended; the Inquisitor knows what I mean. 

\- The Duke has discrete plans for Halamshiral and the Inquisitor: confirmed.

Notes: The Duke is hiring and outfitting troops for the specific purpose of sending them to the Palace. Our team paid more attention to what he put together behind closed doors, while the others tracked the mercenaries. He is unsure as to how the Inquisitor’s disposition will change his designs. There are many rumors surrounding her and little confirmed outside of her travels. He wants to see if she is still a person of the Game, even though he swears himself above such things. The goals seems to be to size her up before he moves any one of his tangent ideas forward, whatever they are. He does not speak of specifics, nor write, for that matter. We checked, even for coded language, and there is nothing. The man must keep it between himself and his bed pillow. 

Regards to Her Worship and her inner company. It was a pleasure getting to chuckle my nights away at the fumblings of men. Tell her she still owes me a cup of wine from her barrel.  


\--

“This is auspicious news, if you ask me.” Vivienne tossed her copy to the table, knocking down an ornament standing tall over Montsimmard’s northern hills. “You are already causing him to lose his focus. Exploit that, my dear.”

Olivia breathed deep, eyes scanning the assembled faces for what felt like the hundredth time in the last five minutes. From her left to right stood Vivienne, the Leliana on the other side, followed by Josephine. Cole, agreeing to accompany, had taken to leaning up against the wall of windows, his signature hat blocking any tell of his reactions. It was no huge loss -- Cole wasn’t exactly the one you looked to for a lack of Wicked Grace face. 

“Exploit that how?” Olivia asked in reply, shoulders shrugging. “He is not the reason we are coming.”

“Isn’t he? It is his claim that has led to this war, and his machinations that threaten to subvert any and all progress that could be made by this event. Take him out, and you remove both the thorn from your side and Corypheus’s easiest tool to utilize.”

“Celene has more to answer for besides usurping her Cousin.”

Vivienne sighed through her nose, short and sharp. “And you plan on rectifying every last one of them in one night? To raise your left hand and order everything from the marble to the paint on Celene’s nails to be stripped bare? What do we in histories make of one person taking it upon themselves to be the executing force of justice?”

“Sometimes it can only be one person, for the rest of them have been repressed beyond the chance, Vivienne.”

“Do not conflate your circumstance with the position of a renegade, Inquisitor. They do not have entire legions under their command waiting outside their tents as they nurse battle wounds.”

“Madame.” Josephine made a curtailing sound like a compliment. “I believe what the Inquisitor is trying to decipher is what could be done with the Duke’s intrigue that would still maintain focus on the goal at hand. We will be traveling to intercede in an assassination.”

“Yes, one that poses consequences.” Leliana, always with hands at her back and mouth to speak with minimalist acuity. 

The morning light bore down on them, staining everything from the fabrics of their attire to the shades of earth on the Thedosian map in colors of red, blue, and gold. All except for the Inquisitor, who’s figure absorbed all discolorations into a head-to-toe military-style gown. Rows of metal buttons down the front bodice, and capped shoulders with silk trim. It was not a spur-of-the-moment outfit choice; she was modeling and checking fit for the current frontrunning ensemble for the Ball. Beautifully made months ago for what Josephine called ‘emergency circumstances,’ as if Balls and Soirees could be such things.

Well, they could. And they often were. 

“What I wonder from Lotus’s report is whether this ambition of his is part of his plans, or truly a diversion of his own,” the Spymaster added to her comment.

“I still fail to see the sense in this rhetoric of ‘using’ anything to do with him besides him sending soldiers to Halamshiral despite agreeing to peace talks.”

Josephine nodded. “I agree with the Inquisitor’s caution. If we are not careful, the Duke could swallow valuable time and efforts we could be placing elsewhere, for the sake of smoke without fire. If it were me, You Worship, I would keep this information close to your chest as possible leverage should the situation take a turn.” 

Olivia asked a lot of questions. Since she was a child, it was so. Even if she had a decent understanding of what the answer would be, it all-too-easily slipped from her tongue anyways. Something about it, about interrogating the truth, appealed to her for whatever reason she never thought to criticize. It was what kept her nose in books, in and out of the Circle. It was what got her slapped in the mouth by her Mother on more than a handful of occasions. It was what made her Father laugh. It was what made her friends believe she was the best listener, the best person to talk to for clarity on circumstances that bogged them down. Alas, for the most part, it was also what made her seem easy to underestimate. 

“If I pretend not to have any knowledge of this, as if I am a sitting duck in a pond, what could happen?” 

Leliana’s posture lifted. “That is a bold prediction to have anyone make, Inquisitor.”

“We are bold people. Let us taste the bone we wish to bite down on, before we lose teeth.”

Vivienne grinned, weight onto one hip. Her fingers were hooked underhanded on the tabletop. “That is an echo of the question that should be asked: What Inquisitor will show at the palace? Are you to be the misunderstood hero, or the prophesized plague?”

“If it is a show either way, does it matter?” Olivia rubbed the thick sleeve fabric on her upper arm. It was hot, and didn’t breathe well. Too cumbersome for dancing, or the chance it’d have to remain on for combat. Notes for later on. 

“You and I have discussed this, Inquisitor: the concept of ‘showing’ as illegitimate is incoherent in this sphere. I see here an exorbitant amount of exerted energies spent trying to find out whether the Duke is a man of predictable tastes, but little spent interrogating the person for whom we will all be attending: you.”

Vivienne was never one to lapse on bringing the heat into an otherwise collaborative project. It was healthy, or so Olivia swore all those times before as the Madame made her hold her ass to the fire. 

“The Inquisitor will be attending as the person she is: a leader, a woman who strives to save Thedas and its innocents from an unfathomable end.” Josephine did her best; in that moment she sounded more like friend than employed dignitary. The honeyed, well-meaning pitch to her words: she emphatically followed this opinion of hers. But, as Olivia and Vivienne continued to stare at each other, eye contact unbroken, the sobriety of it negated the kind pretense. 

“Cole. I have an inquiry,” Olivia asked out of nowhere, tone calm, as if she were asking for a bowl of food to be passed down the banquet table. Her and Vivienne still in their standoff as she opened her crimson-glossed lips again. “What is it you see us in need of? Your opinion would be appreciated.”

From the window, he answered. “You need seven inches taken off the hem, and the lining to be stripped from the bodice. It itches, and you remembered that your skin turns red when the gown lining is made of that horrific fleece they make in the--”

“Cole.” Olivia smiled, and glanced to him. “You...thank you. But, is there anything else besides alterations?” From her periphery, she saw Josephine taking notes for good measure. Multi-tasking, of course. 

Cole perked up, his hat lifting as his expression did. One eye, sterling blue, linked with her hazel ones. “That is what you need. You want to slip out of things easily, to move from tile-to-tile, just as they are about to catch you. The hem is too long because it can get caught, pulled, sliced, dragged. Stained. You need the bodice stripped to make room for the armor plates underneath. Breathing, breathing too hard, breathing too tight, but it is worth it if you know the dagger won’t go clean through. It is what you wanted all those nights when linen and cotton were not enough, so when they hold you, they will not know you bring death. But you will need to be held. He can see that, first, before she does...and then it will be too late.”

As he spoke, Olivia stepped back. Tall, but reckoning with the unknown that made her feel driven like a spike into the floor. She cleared her throat, once again looking to the rest of her assembled accolades, all meeting her with expressions of their own attitudes: unsurprised, curious, and compassionate. One could guess which belonged to which. 

_He can see that, first, before she does…_

She blinked, and took a breath. “Right. Well, I agree with Cole.”

“If I may ask for clarity’s sake, w-what does that mean, exactly?” the Ambassador readied her quill. 

“It means she is using his nonsense as a formulation,” Vivienne interjected, arms folding once more. “One I do hope evolves before our night under the stars at the Palace, surrounded by eyes and ears who know all-too-well when one is too dependent on a temperamental script.”

Olivia’s voice steeled, as did her look, as she came forward and took up her morning chalice of wine in her hand. “You know, Vivienne, I have brought you here -- I have brought you all here -- to improve a plan to benefit us. I did not order a meeting to slice and pry apart my character. Will you have faith in me to decide what is best, or will you continue to toss in variables when we are already filled to the brim with them?”

“So is no one here at all invested in the kind of person who will walk into the halls of the heart of the Imperial court?” 

The room remained still and voiceless, but the domino tiles were teetering. And so, Vivienne pushed further: 

“Not you, Ambassador? You, who have spent weeks working and burning candles in the night to ensure the Inquisitor has the best reputation to cushion her clumsiness should she need it?”

Josephine’s congenial grin fell straight, and it was her turn to stare down the commanding Iron Lady. However, it was not her time to retort, as Vivienne was not quite done:

“Or you, Leliana? I care not for the finer details of your work here, but I have gathered that it would be rather unfortunate for you to have continued to flank and foresee ammunition too big for the Inquisitor to take on all by herself.” Leliana was unreadable, neither outright dissenting or conceding. The Enchanter needed neither before she landed back on Olivia, who had likely gone snow white with dread at the continuation of her indictment. “It would be a pity, then, to offer such specialties for a leader who cannot yet stomach having to answer for the kind of persona she employs. One cannot hide forever from a definition and expect understanding. Power comes from ownership, not from being a pretty ghost.”

Skin hot to the touch and balmy to the touch of her fingers. Vivienne had no right -- she never needed the right. Dammit. She knew provocation would uncover the woman Olivia could be when pressed: decisive, pointed, magnetic. But she could also be impulsive, prone to intemperate opinions, and unforgiving. It was a delicate line to walk. 

Olivia looked to Josephine, perhaps for some psychic courage. But she could only feel the continued languish of seeing her Chief Diplomat look like she couldn’t hide truth in her optimism as always. Neither could Leliana: Leliana the Spymaster, the commanding mistress of the Ravens, who was also Leliana the faithful. Leliana, the woman who would always care about the principles she drew blades for. Her misdeeds had prayers.

Olivia did her best to save face, even as it all broke upon her like stormed waves she was bare to the bone against. 

“I am going to Halamshiral to prevent the chaos our enemy thirsts for. If it requires me to be any one of the aliases and personas the world has adorned me with...if it is the Black Dove that will get the best of Gaspard and not the sacrosanct Herald of Andraste, then...fine. I will make that sacrifice for Thedas, as I will make it for all of you.”

“Inquisitor, are you certain you know the boundaries which you play with?”

“I know, Josephine,” she rushed, but then stopped to sigh. “I...I know.”

“Does this mean you will assume the role of the evening’s villain above all villains?” Leliana asked, skeptical out of good measure. “You would have it come to life?”

“It means...that I will need a gown of ivory and gold.”

Josephine’s writing scratched abruptly. “Ivory and white? But you detest those colors.”

“Josephine, my friend,” Olivia offered a smile, wishing she felt nothing but gratitude from her end. “For this, I think would be smarter to do as you have recommended, and keep as many tools of leverage close to my chest unless needed.”

Vivienne huffed with satisfaction, if ever-fleeting. “You will make yourself seem hungry for redemption.”

“I will make myself ready to kill, as we all should.” Olivia leaned onto her boot heels. “The pamphlets were right about me on one front: black does do well to conceal stains that are not as ideal to show off. It will take some getting used to; I suppose I will have to learn to be cleaner.”

“Cleaner, Your Worship?” Leliana asked, a bit playful, “or clearer?”

Olivia pressed her lips, retaining the wideness of her smile in it as she lowered her gaze to the piles of papers and scrolls before them all. “Whatever makes Corypheus wail at the end of the night in furious grief at one more of his plans thwarted, I will happily oblige. Now, that is all for now. I will see each of you later.”

Vivienne was the first to leave, though she exchanged a knowing pout with the Inquisitor before doing so. It would not be the last time they’d discuss the Palace or what was to come. After Josephine and Leliana followed, side-by-side, talking hushed between themselves. As they neared the door, the Ambassador pressed her hands to her lips to suppress a smirk, a tell that it wasn’t all gloominess to be discussed. Good. 

Olivia hung back, fingers rubbing against the palms of her hands in unsettled fists. “Cole,” she said once more, back to him as the door swung half-shut behind the women. 

“Yes,” he replied, at once by her left side. No foot step or puff of smoke. Just him. 

“Thank you.”

“For what, Inquisitor?”

She grinned crooked, spirit sore, as she looked to him. He was taller than her, even without the hat. “For helping me be brave.”

His nose crinkled just a tad, the rest of him un-phased. “It’s better to be brave with the truth, than lie and stay afraid.”

“It is,” she said, then sighed. “It is. Come, let us go get tea, yes?”

“Green. Not black.” They began walking, his posture a bit awkward as he did his best to travel like she did, one foot in front of the other, without crouching in combat or depending on plumes of magic to get him there. Just walking, like all the folks did. 

\--

“These notes still do not make sense,” Naomi lamented, flipping page after page of a published book on something-or-other. “Annotations by nugs, if you ask me.”

Olivia giggled, head and shoulders bent over her work table as she did her best to make her notes anything but worthy of Naomi’s critique. “Do not say such things in the vicinity of my Spymaster, word of warning.”

“Oh, Leliana? No, I suppose I shouldn’t.”

“You call her Leliana?” Olivia peered over her shoulder to see Naomi shrug, still scribbling revisions for gross error after gross error. 

“I call people their names. Honorifics too, of course. You know this.”

“I just did not know you had reached that point with her.”

“You promote me and expect me not to step up for the workload?”

Olivia straightened up, and held her hand in the air as a caution of surrender. “Naomi Ambrosia, singe the rest of my hair with the heat of your tongue alone, why don’t you.”

Naomi laughed, breaking the current of tension. She was focused, but never irreverent. And she always took the chance to laugh when she could. Something that made both her presence and her memory both easy on the heart, like near-perfection. 

Some more time of productivity passed before more conversation, coming about when Naomi stood from her chair and collapsed a book closed once and for all, in a forceful slam. 

“Finally!” she said, tossing it to the stack of ‘to-be-put-away’ texts. “I think I have a few methods lined up, now.”

“What, for the armor?”

“Yes, for the blasted armor,” she snickered as Olivia turned around, leaning back against her desk with her hands. “Dagna has some wonderful ideas, but it is a game of catch-up with her sometimes. She wants to imbue cloths with abstract ingredients I did not even know we had in our reserves. And she keeps sending designs for layering underneath what looks...looks like...agh! Maker’s breath,” she thumped her forehead with her thumb. She went to the stack of large sheets of papers on to her right and began searching. 

_Since when is she swearing using the Maker’s breath?_

Naomi corrected herself. “She wants to line your regalia for the Ball. Now it makes sense. I thought we would be making separate armor.”

Olivia reserved her laughter from watching her friend process the details in live-time with such passionate animation. It was refreshing, after her series of tenuous protocol lessons preparing her for the Palace, to have such candid behavior surrounding her. She looked back at her own work pile briefly before parting from it in favor of Naomi’s workspace, arms folded loosely against her vest. 

“I had different ideas in mind, as did Dagna,” she clarified as Naomi sprawled out the most recent sketches for the Inquisitor’s gown. A bit grandiose, with a full skirt thick enough to hide another petite person underneath. The rest of it, however, was in-progress and changing nearly on the hour. 

Naomi took up her quill, holding it in her hands as her eyes looked it all over. The notes, lines, lists of needed items. A rough draft if you ever saw one. 

“You are making this armor lean in build. It is impressive,” Naomi posited, “but it is so sewn in. You would have to do something ridiculous to sever it from the gown entirely, pull it apart like an animal. It would be awful to do in a pinch.”

“Hm,” Olivia hummed, resting half-seated on the table corner. “Or I could burn through it.”

At first, Naomi waved it off. Smiling with a subtle, low chuckle. Olivia’s silence made her do a second take, one in which her eyes went as wide as full moons and even brighter, beautifully dark green.

“Olivia, you cannot be serious.”

A prideful, if not mischievous, smile graced the Inquisitor’s lips. “I wish I was. That would be quite a fun spectacle.”

“Fun for whom, exactly?” 

“I don’t know. Any Fereldans in attendance looking for a diversion worth their time.”

“An Orlesian Mage lighting herself up like a signal torch on the ballroom floor?” Naomi scoffed, “yes, that is exactly the entertainment they need.”

“I love to accommodate.”

Naomi leaned over onto the bottoms of her palms, which rest on either side of the design paper. Shaking her head so as to refocus amidst all the playful banter, surely. Her fingers around her quill tapped at an uneven rhythm, most likely in tune with her spurious trains of thought than any song.

Olivia observed, but was not done. Leaning over with her, she took the feather from between her busy fingers for herself. 

“I do, however, have one addition I would like to run past you.”

“Agh, another one?” Naomi rose, brow furrowed and chin tilted. “What, not enough glittery fabric?”

“That is a qualm for the seamstresses. For you, I have this.” Olivia went down onto her elbow while she wrote her note to the right of the drawn skirt. Then, a sharp line that nearly cut through the paper, with an arrowhead. Sitting up, she shrugged and held out the quill to its original owner, like she had only said to nip/tuck the underskirt or be careful with the needles. 

Naomi stood by, suspicious for a moment’s worth of staring: looking for a clue in Olivia’s demeanor; but it was all there on the paper. No secrets, no unhelpful nuance. At last she took the quill back and approached, eyes finding Olivia’s unruly cursive from which she read aloud:

“Imbue the velvet for burning.” She paused, then stomped backward onto her heel. “Olivia, I thought you were joking!”

“Shh!” Olivia gestured, briefly searching the floor and shelves behind Naomi before carrying on. “I was...a bit.”

“A bit?”

“You remember in the Circle, the Templars got mad at the Apprentices burning tapestries on accident--”

“Yes, well, ‘on accident’ is not really used literally in that instance.”

Olivia choked back another laugh. “Well, they let us search for ways for fabric to merely absorb the fire instead of fall apart. I need something similar, but I need it to burn...just so far as to change--”

“The color.”

“...Yes. That is a word for it.”

“You want...you...wait, fire…” Naomi already began conspiring in her own mind, as she started to pace on her side of the table. “This would be with Mage fire? Not Veil, or any other sort?”

“Just normal fire, is all I ask. If we can find some books on pyromance, I know we can...maybe we can find a way to powderize something, or…”

“Powder. Yes! Trying to spin an entirely new fabric blend this soon before you leave it would be too much. But something to lace...yes, we need to lace…” she dipped her quill and ripped paper from her journal, the sound of it exciting them both. She laid it out flat and began writing, writing, writing. Lines and dashes, scribbled shorthand, the works. 

“You would need it to be an enchantment medium. You would be burning the medium, not the fabric. We already have Mage armor fabrics resistant to elemental magics. All we would need is to…”

“To substitute the gown fabric with it…”

“And we have a canvas for our medium.”

They were both elbows-down on the wood of the table, and looked up from Naomi’s paper to stare at each other in wonder. This was what they were born to do. This is what Mages could do, together. 

“I think we have grounds for research, then, Enchanter?”

Naomi smiled, cheeks round and brows lifted. “I think we do, Enchanter.” 

“Dorian will want in on this. Especially if he sees us frolicking around the library like children who just had sugar in their milk.”

Naomi groaned, and hung her head. “Fine, fine. It is only fair after I stole half his stash of books two weeks ago.”

“You stole his stash? He has a stash?!” Whether to be offended or unsurprised, Olivia ran her fingers through her hair and looked off towards the floor window. That man. 

“He has three stashes. I only needed access to the one. Why he stashes, I do not know. He has the freedom of being an ally, does he not?”

“Yes, but he…” Olivia was about to gossip, but then the memory of her stealing a book from him that he left on the window seat only to spill her wine over a third of the chapter came back to mind. The sound of Dorian -- or more, the look of Dorian -- and his disapproval was enough to scare her from the library outright. _‘I have been making notes in the margins for days, you blonde, glowing pixie.’_ It was hard to recall exactly how long she was banished. 

“He…?” Naomi called her back, clearly expecting a saner explanation than the one she would have to give. 

“You know, nevermind. I will not say anything about you knowing where he hides things, just...be careful...and sober.”

\--

Messages transferred between the desk of the Inquisitor and that of the Seeker in the late afternoon, that same day --

  
17th Drakonis 

Unfortunately, Seeker, I will not be able to attend morning sparring tomorrow. I am much too broken and bruised from this morning, as I was after the night prior. You will have to find someone else to pummel out your frustrations...well, if only for the morning sessions. I am still available for evenings, because I understand the importance of this training. 

Sincerest regards.

-O  


  
17th Drakonis

This was an impressive attempt, Inquisitor. I do not accept excuses of mentees, however -- only results and keeping of their word. I look forward to continuing instruction tomorrow morning with you, specifically. 

Regards.  


  
17th Drakonis

You are making me exhaust the inter-fortress courier this way, debating an order I have handed down? Seeker, this is poor form for you. I will not be there in the field at dawn, much as you might believe so. If you must find me for important matters, I will be in my private chambers tonight enjoying some wine and bread after supper in the Hall, preparing for our midnight session. That is all I can dispose of. 

Kind regards from a woman who just so happens to look very ravishing -- if you recall -- in black satin night robes. 

\- O  


  
17th Drakonis

The courier's responsibility is to field messages; however, he may have to be transferred if you insist on sending messages that compel me to make compromising faces in his presence. Sparring is more enjoyable when one knows how to properly block a punch, something you will eventually manage, _if_ you attend. Which you will. 

Regards from a woman who appreciates the way you look in satin, but admittedly prefers the way you look in field attire. Like during sparring, which you will be doing come sunrise.  


As for the evening, do not let your overconfidence leave the door open. But...do not lock it, either. 


	82. Face of A Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Seeker and Inquisitor enjoy another morning of educational sparring. Only, true to form for a situation that includes Olivia, things do not stay on track as well as they could. Once again she tries to open up about anxieties even she, herself cannot fully understand; and their love continues to grow, if ever-cautiously, stronger in the face of the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: partial nudity.

Cassandra was a hard wake-up-call to ignore when she not only intimidated you but had carnal knowledge of you. Despite this, training at daybreak it did have its charms: rising together -- well, that is, Cassandra rising first to Olivia’s chagrin -- and starting the day side-by-side, rather than hoping to catch a glimpse of each other during the day. Washing, dressing, and walking together. Routine, as passing as it was, suited them more than she would have imagined. Crumbs of a life that could have been had the world been entirely different and at the same time, still conspiring to have their paths cross somehow. It wasn’t exactly soothing to know all that it took to meet the person she would fall for was an impending end of days and a destroyed Temple.

The more mornings they ventured out, however, the more unclear it became as to what the Seeker’s true intentions were with this arrangement. At first, she was her quintessential self: commanding, off-putting, but with direction. That did not always stick. 

“If I take hold of you here, what then?” she asked, standing with their toes nearly on top of each other and her hands on Olivia’s vest sleeves. She was grabbing her like a rag doll, like a man on a mission to get her out of his way would in the thick of it. 

Olivia, attentive as she could be as the sun barely peaked up over the teeth of the mountainside, didn’t miss a beat. 

“I have options. You’ll want to bring me in close before throwing me or hitting, so I have to get distance. I can pull back and do something to knock you off balance...punch,” she demonstrated, fist going to the center of Cassandra’s chestbone. “But if you are heavily armored, I bring up my knee and…” she reached and laced her fingers around the back of Cassandra’s neck and motioned to bend her towards her, knee only lifting a few inches. It wasn’t for real -- the hits weren’t landing. It was all talk, all hypothetical. Mostly. 

“Good,” Cassandra said, before her grip goes to cusp around Olivia’s throat. She keeps steady, but there’s a flicker of light in her eyes that reckons with just the sheer gesture of doing something like that to her; a light that says just the practice of it displeases every nerve in her body. “...And here?”

“I use my prayer hands, of course.” 

Cassandra paused, but understood the reference that Olivia couldn’t quite get over since the first time she uttered it as a metaphor when teaching her. “Yes, but how?”

Olivia pressed her palms together. They came up between Cassandra’s elbows and then opened so that they could take hold of her face, thumbs just below her eyelids. “Then into the eyes,” she confirmed.

“Good,” the Nevarran repeated, “what is another option?”

“I duck out and kick.”

“Yes.” Cassandra released and backed off. Dressed in tight-fitting training clothes -- trim, but breathable materials that comprised her breeches and vest top, a leather belt at her waist, and tall boots on -- she wasn’t exactly what Olivia would describe as an adversary to evade. Quite the contrary, actually, as she stepped forward as she stepped back, like a preliminary dance of footwork. 

“Are you finally going to tell me why you have chosen this particular style of teaching? Or am I to wait for the sixth morning?” She asked, hands to her hips.

Cassandra grinned but turned her back to her, going to the spot in the short grass where their sacks of water had been tossed several yards away. Close by were two wood sticks for pole fighting, which had also proven fun, but little utilized. She seemed concerned above all else with hand-to-hand, and not just that: intimate hand-to-hand, where enemies would go for where it’d hurt most and unexpectedly. While she crouched to pick up her bag to drink, Olivia stood waiting for an answer that probably wasn’t on the wings. 

“No? Alright then,” she answered ahead, before her eyes met the mountains. She put her hand across her brow so as to shield from the brightening sun. _At least when Blackwall was teaching me, I got to play with things. This is just...well, this is useful, too._

“One does not always have the luxury of weapons or a even playing field with which to defend themselves,” Cassandra chimed in at last, standing back up. When she turned back to face her, her wrist was at her mouth, wiping the excess water off her chin whilst she held her bag in her other hand. 

“I know that.”

“Then this should make more than enough sense to you, Inquisitor.”

“Inquisitor.” 

“That is who you are,” Cassandra closed her bag and dropped it back behind her on the pile of items. 

Olivia was quickly learning that for all of Cassandra’s self-defined impulsivity, she could be delicate and reserved about it when she wanted. As she came back to their makeshift arena, roughly cutting through the overgrowth of brush and small flowers around them, Olivia marveled at it in her own, quiet way, even when she was un-amused by the mystery of her agenda. 

“Are we going to finally fight, now?” she asked, tucking hair behind her ear. 

“You enjoy it profusely for someone pinned so quickly,” Cassandra retorted, a big smug. To that, Olivia scoffed, and dug her heels into the soil. 

“I am needing practice. You said it yourself. So what if I enjoy it?”

Cassandra’s brow rose, pensive and slow to excitement. One could say she was almost meditative. It was all a flow of question and response, command and answer, problem and solution. A balance. She was so in her element like this. Which is why when she elected to throw a punch with one of her wrapped hands instead of continue discussion, it came across so seamlessly calm, it nearly took Olivia’s breath away. Cassandra had already trained her to know better than to get caught up completely. 

It was a frontal punch to attempt, direct and intimidating if you weren’t used to it. Olivia let out her breath and dodged, taking hold of the fist sent her way by the wrist and using it to pull her around until her back to was to her. Feet planted, she yanked it forward up over her shoulder and cocked her other elbow up and backwards to sneak a counter-blow.

Cassandra, not one to have no back-up plan to her maneuvers, went into motion: blocking the hit heading for her face and wrapping her arm that had been used against her around Olivia’s neck.

_Headlock. Pivot._

Olivia stepped forward at an angle and promptly swiveled on the ball of her foot, rolling out of place just before Cassandra’s strength would become inescapable. They were still close, though, and her options were limited. Tackle or space. She went for a change of pace, straight in for Cassandra’s torso to take her down. It required all her weight, being the smaller one, but hearing Cassandra grunt as they went to the dirt satisfied her implicit doubt of herself. 

Falling on top of her she did her best to get atop her, but Cassandra only had to lift in order to capitalize off of the instability. While Olivia scrambled to pin her she took advantage, and hooked her hand up behind her knee, unseating her with one swing up and over. 

Olivia gasped, dust from the ground getting in her lungs as it became her turn to be dropped like dead weight on her back. Cassandra was far more successful in securing her down, knee and calf bone planted directly on Olivia’s abdomen rather than on the side. It forced the air from her gut as Cassandra leaned over her, panting.

“What now?” Cassandra prodded, authoritative. 

Airless and competitive nature seething, the Inquisitor smiled. It was now her chance to reply with actions rather than words, and in an instant she used the hold of Cassandra’s leg on her waist to lurch her opposite vertically. She then swung it across up and around the front of Cassandra’s neck and shoulders and pushed down, once again using her as an anchor. 

Cassandra huffed and braced against it, but it wasn’t fast enough. Once again she was slammed down, enforcing knee releasing Olivia so that she could rise up and take back the battle. Second time was the charm on getting the best of her, and she shoved herself forward to sit atop Cassandra’s chest, knees on her shoulders. She slouched and did her best to compose her breaths as Cassandra did the same, only with a woman on top to make it all the more difficult. 

“Let--let me guess,” Olivia’s chest heaved, “you will do a...variation of what I just did and send me backwards.”

Cassandra blinked her eyes free of dust, and shook her head once. “No, I would send you up over my...my head. And we would stand again, and continue.”

“But...but you’d have me…?”

“Too easy.”

Olivia rolled her eyes, and blew hair out of her face. “The look on your face said anything but ‘easy’ when we were doing this in bed, Pentaghast.” She then slid off, rolling onto her hip. Cassandra remained horizontal for a moment more, though her knee bent up towards the sky. 

“You are learning,” she deferred, at last pushing herself up, staying on her elbows. “With time, you--”

“Time I don’t have.”

Cassandra collected her breath and shot her a look. One of those ‘and now you are angry with me,’ looks. It was a toss up then of whether to calm down or let her restlessness get away from her. Something about fighting, about fending off someone, riled her up. It wasn’t a calm and thoughtful process for her as it was for her teacher, who undoubtedly had years of honing it that way. Fighting was about proving something, even after all this time and practice. Whatever it was, though, was less clear. 

Cassandra sat up and hooked an elbow on the peak of her knee. “You cannot ever hope to accomplish everything as quickly as you have had to, Inquisitor.”

Inquisitor, again. When she said it, it was a reminder that it was the Inquisition’s leader failing to spar well one-on-one. Something that was the sensational equivalent to splinters getting caught under her nails. The thought alone made her grimace, wiping her hands of the dirt and grass strands pressed into the bottoms of her palms. 

“Is this all you trying to tell me I can’t fight? That I am helpless?”

“Is that what you believe I would wish to tell you?”

Olivia bit down on her cheek and glanced her way, and was met by Cassandra’s furrowed brow and straight mouth. No, it is not, she conceded in her head as she looked away. She was throwing daggers in the dark for no reason. Or maybe there were reasons: days of being cinched into gown underpinnings, of having five or six family names alternating in her head at all times, of planning troop movements and at the same time remembering how to angle her shoulders and hands for certain attitudes. Of working on test after test of her and Naomi’s gown additive, sometimes for hours at a time, and fending off Naomi’s questions as to what she was really planning to do with such a trick up her sleeve. Of re-reading all the reports from Gaspard’s encampment to herself when she had rare moments alone, thereby counter-intuitively filling her ‘breaks’ with more tiresome details to overthink.

She pulled one knee up to her chest and sighed. “Cassandra.”

“Yes?” The Seeker aligned her posture nice and tall, and brought her legs into a criss-cross shape, elbows-to-knees. 

“Are you...do you…”

Cassandra looked at her, and watched while she carefully strung her words together in her head. It was distracting, the way she looked when she listened to you. Just enough for things to fall into place, and intrepidations to be soothed. 

“Do you ever fear you will not make it out of a battle? That something will go wrong, or you will be the one to make the wrong move?”

Her gaze narrowed ever-so-slightly. With the rising sun, more of her skin glistened with light sweat and gentle redness in places where she had been hit or climbed on. “Yes. Frequently.”

“Frequently? Then...then what keeps you so undaunted all the time?”

“My faith that the Maker’s will shall protect me or decide that it is my time to fall.” Olivia blinked, habitually defensive towards such a line of thought. Her reaction led Cassandra to smirk. “That was not the response you wished to hear.”

“It is not very comforting knowing the woman you care for is always at the ready to pass into the next world.”

“Would it be more comforting if she was fearful of it?”

“I am a simple woman, sometimes I do not always have the noblest opinions on mortality. And I eat the frosting off dessert pastries. Condemn me, if you must.”

Cassandra chuckled, and her eyes fell to her own lap. Simply open, grounded from her place of being her methodical and intimidating mentor. “When...Antony died, there was a long period of time when I feared death as a consequence more than an experience. You see, I had little grasp of it besides the gross displays of it in Nevarran customs. I was greatly upset at the thought of my brother becoming one of the mindless, moaning corpses in the crypts my Uncle helped to oversee. Yet...I dreaded in my grief that I shared a similar fate to him, just in life: to wander, and be out of place, while men restricted me forever.”

_Antony._ Cassandra hardly spoke of him, and never unprovoked in Olivia’s presence before this morning. Her tone of voice, the way her shoulders fell, all the while she spoke so candidly...it was more than enough to inspire guilt for complaining.

“But...but you did not share that fate. You saw the world, and survived, and made something of yourself.”

“I was made into someone, and given a purpose: a chance to remember why it is we are put here. There can be liberation in following a course, just as there can be in deciding it.”

Olivia sighed through her nose, chin resting on her knee as a pair of butterflies danced through the air a few feet before them. One was white, the other a faint yellow; mismatched in color, but drawn to each other nonetheless. It made her smile softly to herself. 

“Do you miss him?”

A breath of silence, followed by admonition. “Every day of my life.”

Olivia peeked over, watching as Cassandra continued to thoughtfully watch the grass in front of her lap. She was there, but she was not present, at least not entirely.

“I do not fear death, alone,” Olivia said as she rubbed the front of her calf-high boot leather

“I suspect it would be difficult to cope if you did, given the circumstances.”

“I still have fears surrounding it, you know.”

“Then what are they?”

“I suppose it would be dying and being remembered as someone different from who I truly was. No one being able to say the truth, to testify on my behalf.”

Cassandra looked at her, but with new reckoning. It was more than likely surprising to hear such a thing from a woman who had made it her mission for months on end to be undefined, capitalizing off of being misunderstood or underestimated at every turn. “Are you certain that is what you fear most?”

Olivia retained a chuckle in her throat. “What, do you not believe me?”

“Well...no.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“This, coming from the woman who told me she had five different middle names while we were traveling the coast.”

Her chuckled bubbled onto her tongue, along with widened lips. “Hey, I always preferred the name Colette to Berenice. Would you punish me for dreaming?”

“You were not dreaming, you were harassing.” 

Olivia rolled her eyes once more. "Unfortunate for me, I can't boast having all of them at the same time, unlike some people." 

A groan of disgust. “I regret ever allowing you to know that.”

Her words seemed harsh, but delivered out of playfulness. As she spoke, the wind rose out through the tall grass and through the valley floor, just enough for the wispy ends of Olivia’s put-up hair to wiggle loose around her ears. It smelled heavy, warm, and like the woods, there. One of the rare locations where the snow completely thawed. It was beautiful, and it was nice to be able to share it. Even if it meant being asked difficult questions in-between getting her ass handed to her.

“Why, then, do you fear being misunderstood if you also avoid being understood?” Cassandra rose to her feet, patting off the top of her dirtied breeches. She pivoted and reached out a hand so as to invite her along, a gesture Olivia took her up on. It gave her a little moment to think on it.

“I...well…” 

“You want to know what I think?” Cassandra turned to face her and folded her arms.

“Oh? You have thoughts?”

She nodded, repressing a smile. “I think you have desired to be understood all along. You just feared the consequences of it.”

“That is an easy assumption to make, Seeker,” Olivia jested, halfheartedly punching her in the shoulder before moving past her towards their belongings. “Especially when a person such as yourself has made it their hidden prerogative to figure people out, with or without their readiness.”

“I am not backing down. You have yearned to be seen for who you are, and be honest with those around you. Even now, you crave it. That is not something I have had to trespass to know.”

Her words landed on the back of her arms and neck like well-meaning daggers, piercing with kindness, as if that were possible. She came to a rough, heavy-set halt. With closeness came confidence, and with confidence came conflict. The more they talked, the more time they spent together, the more the bridges between these words grew strong. 

“Hm. You may be onto something,” Olivia entertained, bending down and grabbing her harvesting knife from the half-open bag she brought along. “As am I. Come along?”

As she rose and spun around in her direction, Cassandra’s brow rose. “Come along where? We are already where we intended on being this morning.”

“I know. I was thinking somewhere unintended.”

“Like...like where?”

“In the tall grass, where I can sunbathe.” She stretched her arms straight into the air. It had been, what, an hour of hard work? Not too much longer and she would be expected back at Skyhold, where the demands suspended would await her. 

Cassandra frowned, and glanced over her shoulder before staring her down again. “But we did not come to--”

“Oh, my love,” Olivia purred as she rolled her shoulders, “you are so committed to the schedule you have made for me.” Closer and closer, until she could place her hand against her cheek and caress its aged softness. “But you are not the only one who can usurp plans.”

\--

Some energetic wandering down the shallow valley, a few snarky comments thrown from either side, and one more instance of Cassandra saving Olivia from the brink of a trail stumbling, and they had come to a hillside where sparse, young trees lined the main forest. There, the indigenous flora had grown unruly and thick enough for Olivia to slide down onto her knees and have her line of sight almost completely obstructed by green and amber shades of grass. It was welcome escape to her, but of course to Cassandra it was all the more reason to worry. Rather than submerge herself along with the Inquisitor, she elected to perch atop a fallen, wide log long overgrown with moss patches on either ends. There she stayed while Olivia began loosening and stripping her layers, causing her sparring partner to blush from something other than the young sunlight. 

“Olivia, are you certain this is wise of you?”

“You mean to tell me you, a warrior, have never taken such liberties before? Please.” Olivia eyed her from over her shoulder as she slid off her vest with ease, leaving nothing but the linen chest binding around her breasts and shoulder blades. 

“I did not say that, I was only...ugh,” Cassandra folded her arms and leaned up tall and uptight. “This is more of your wandering attitude from past travels, I take it.”

“Yes, in fact, it is. The girls and I traveled predominantly nude, did you not know?”

“....Maker.”

She giggled and went about unwinding herself from the final layer of fabric. All the while Cassandra went suspiciously quiet. It wasn’t like it was anything she hadn’t seen before...or kissed, or licked, or bit, or...whatever else came to mind. Olivia had only one twist left of cloth before she’d be completely freed. She looked positively sinful in intent as she let it drop out of her hands and off of her frame, into her lap.

“Whoops.”

“You are...you…” 

“You know, Seeker,” Olivia continued to sweeten the pot, hands up to her hair as she went for the pins keeping her twists and braids intact, “I remember the way you’d look when we’d wash out at camp.”

“You what?!” Cassandra’s blush turned to red, and she looked away towards the countryside. “I...I did not look at you in any unique way. That is ridiculous.”

“Oh? The way you’d do exactly as you are doing now?”

“I am not!”

The Inquisitor had pulled her hair down and loose, waving and slightly knotted as it fell on either side of her chest. Holding back an earnest laugh she rolled over onto her hands and knees and began crawling the several feet between them, palms stinging against the uneven and coarse woodland floor. 

“Cassandra, be here with me.” She arrived right in front of her knees and placed her hands atop them both. “What happened to our task of discussion?”

“Indeed, what did happen?” she finally looked down upon her, too provoked not to, but when she did her eyes glimmered with vindicated nervousness. The woman she cared for, the woman she had been undressing and loving almost every night that week, was bent before her and scantily clad amidst the wilds of the Frostbacks. Certainly, some things could be better than fiction. 

Olivia brought herself to her knees, her hands sliding up the peaks of Cassandra’s thighs, to her hips, then torso for the rim of her vest belt, “I think…”

“Let me guess, you think I need to relax.”

The buckle came loose, leather smooth under her mischievous fingers. “Yes.”

Cassandra grinned. Her hips slid forward, ever-so-slightly. Clearly needing her arm twisted in order to be convinced of attention. “Then by all means. Talk, Inquisitor.”

Not needing anymore words, Olivia fully unfastened the belt and yanked it from its wraparound holes. It went into the grass, somewhere, somehow, and was lost to her happily. That left shaking off the top to reveal the linen smalls under it. The sun bore down on them so strongly the thin, gaunt material was no match for the olive warmth of her skin. Even after a long winter, and a life of armor.

It was then Cassandra took the chance to slide down along the log wood, seating herself pinned between it at her back and Olivia against her. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” the Inquisitor remarked, arching her chest into her and using the log as leverage on either side of Cassandra’s shoulders.

“When I said you would have to go to more discrete forms of seducing me, merely removing me from all company in favor of grassland and moss was not entirely what I had in mind.” She was sharp, but her gaze was soft and wayward, looping down from Olivia’s lips to her neck, and from their to her tangled hair covering her chest. Sentimental, almost. 

Olivia was unimpressed by the backtalk, as always. “No, but that would have taken the fun out of it, if I simply did what you have in mind.”

“Is that supposed to mean my ideas are not up to par?”

“It means, Seeker, that you deserve to be surprised.”

She smiled, and her body relaxed around her. “If only the woman you were several months ago could hear you now. How disgusted would she be?”

“Oh, repulsed beyond measure,” Olivia scrunched her nose to drive the point home before her mouth veered in towards the side of Cassandra’s chin and began kissing. Sweet touches, taking their time to soak in the inch-for-inch splendor of her jawline and her neck. “Now, about that move you neglected to make on me back on the sparring ground…”

Cassandra's fingers traced up towards the middle of Olivia’s back, evoking a subtle shiver. “Mm. I think not.”

“Ugh, what?!” Olivia slouched and pulled away, chin lifted and brows rounded. “You promised me I would learn to spar well and yet you hide moves from me? This, this right here,” she poked her in the collar bone, “this is vain despotism.”

Where she expected a mouthy reply, or some further knocking of her ass down a peg or two, Cassandra only laid her head back and took her in in all her defiant glory. Eyes half-shut, peering down her nose, and lips parted in a half-smile. An angle Olivia never got enough of -- which may have been why she utilized it just so -- but would she complain? Maker’s ass, no.

“You are ignoring the argument,” she pressed on, freezing in place.

“Maybe I am.”

She paused, and tilted her ear towards her shoulder. “What is it? What’s got you all...all…” Damn, one of Sera’s words for it would have fit so well. _Melted? Molted? Mutilated?_ All of them put together in one hodge-podge of a descriptor? Something along those lines. 

Cassandra’s lips twitched into a wider smile, and she sent her fingers up and through Olivia’s hair. No discourse, no demands, just feeling. Olivia’s bravado weakened into genuine wonder. 

“What is it?” she said a second time, fainter, as if she were half-anticipating bad news of some sort. 

“I am trying to do everything I can to ensure I remember you this way. Just like this, and nothing else.”

Of all the things she could say. Of all the desires she could have. It was humble, and quaint, and lovely. Something someone would want to hear from the one they...from the one that they…oh, sod it.

“Cassandra, do you...do you believe that…”

“Hm?” her hand found went back through her hair a second time, combing with gentility through from top to frayed, split ends. It was becoming all the more difficult to remember to breathe, think, and enjoy it at the same time. Conversation was fast becoming impossible. 

“Do you look at me, and see me for all that I am?”

Cassandra’s smile waned with thoughtfulness. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” she swallowed, and her hands fell to rest flat on Cassandra’s waist, “I mean do you...do you…”

“Mumbling, again, I see.”

“I--agh, yes...I…” she smiled from shyness, her eyes searching in hers, “I suppose I wonder how you see me. What you see when you look at me, when you listen to me...what it is like…”

The Seeker’s discerning brow furrowed for a few seconds, but it was enough to send Olivia’s heart into a quick pace. If there was a time to take hold of her hand and wade the anxiety, it would be then; if only it would make sense to do it when the same person providing comfort was also the person invoking the need itself.

But, then, she lifted her head off of the decaying wood. “I see a woman who is good, despite mistreatment. Who is kind, even after enduring cruelties. A woman who is ready to sacrifice herself for the safety of those she cares for,” her combing fingers brushed hair up off of the shaved side of Olivia’s temple, exposing her most prominent evidence of her selflessness. It made her pulse still. “And when she is wrong, she does not turn away from the chance to make things right.”

Olivia blinked fast and flurried, the pressure of emotion building in her head. “And...and if that woman has to do things that people will condemn her for, even...if…it is not all so wonderful….” her mind was losing grip, torn between relief and apprehension. What if your hero is someone else’s villain?

Cassandra’s knee bent up higher, boot heel digging into the fertile ground. “Olivia, you do not always have to play along with what the world has come to expect of the powerful. You do not have to be like them. You can be different...I believe you can.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It is not, but it is possible.” She leaned up and into her, tucking blonde strands behind Olivia’s ear, “I know you are worried for what lies ahead, but do not let them convince you that you are cut from the same cloth without hope of change.”

“And what if I am?”

She took hold of her shoulder. “You are not.”

The endless concerns and double-takes, every step she made in preparation bringing her closer to an ultimate breaking point. If she was to rise to the occasion, if she was to prove herself enough to be the Inquisitor, to be the shield between the world and its doom, she would have to return and face her demons that made her human. And though the timidities she confided in Cassandra were but the tips of icebergs growing inside her, it was no small solace to believe Cassandra at least saw worthiness in her still. 

She inhaled deep, recalling the crisp heat of the morning that centered her. The sun at her back, and the way it illuminated her lover’s face. The hues of raven black, ember, and pale blue in her hair. Her strong nose. Her clarity. 

She placed her hands on either side of Cassandra’s neck, and breathed out. “I hope, then, that every time you look into my eyes you see the woman I am here with you, looking back,” her forehead fell against hers, and she closed her eyes, her voice whispering the last string of words. 

Cassandra’s face paled with reckoning, and she rolled her lips shut to bite back whatever it was growing behind her expression. She took hold and brought her against her, so uncompromising that their hearts chased each other’s beating. 

“If that is your wish, then I will not stop searching for her.” Cassandra said faintly, and pressed her lips to her forehead. 

“Then we are still on the same side, yes?”

“Yes,” as she kissed her cheek this time, “we are. In every arena except the one for sparring, that is.”

Olivia snorted, and nudged her in the chest. “Still an ass.”

The cleverness quickly bowed to an embrace when their eyes met, the heartfelt undercurrent prevailing over ego. Holding onto each other easy and sweet. Severed from the fortress, from the fineries and the finalities, it was addictive: Thedas could clamor for her, but she was here. She was here, and she was with the one person she would happily undress herself in front of. 

Soon after, she laid back against Cassandra’s chest as her arms wrapped around her from behind, and with butterflies that gave way to calm breathing, and calm breathing that gave way to shut eyes and humming of a song she never learned the name of. She did as she said she would, and bathed in the light she had managed to deserve, for as long as she could. 

Maybe the Black Dove could die off of her bones, once and for all. Maybe this could be the end of it.


	83. Sympathizer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Departure for Halamshiral mere nights away, and final preparations are being made. Olivia receives a curious note from Madame de Fer, reminding her of all the pieces she could yet play in the Game ahead. That, and a rather unexpected name from her past. Later on, one last dress fitting proves more eventful than expected, with Veronica attempting to intervene in what she sees to be an offensive oversight.

26th Drakonis, 9:42 Dragon

Inquisitor,

I have had time to contemplate and investigate the conditions of our plans with finer eyes than within the council room. I wish to once again ask that you reconsider your indirect approach to the Duke’s weakness for you. Only now I have more clever reasoning to do so, besides that of my own merit alone, which should have been more than sufficient for you. Alas, imperfections in friendship remind us of its vitality. Duke Gaspard de Chalons has been pandering for legitimacy for years. An interesting development for him, indeed, would be the accomplishment of a throne and a wife in the same season. A match with you is a match with an enforcer; he will pursue you as he has his this arms race of his. Secure that hunger in the throat, and stiffen your grip.

The second point I wish to illuminate for you is that of your family. They have been suspiciously quiet. Would it not make you wonder what fortunes, or lack thereof, have befallen them? Or, as I believe you have wondered even in the darkest depths of your busy mind, is there something -- or someone -- who wishes their own ‘performance’ to lack a prelude?

My contacts in Montsimmard have traveled well to the north country of the Capitol. Your cousin yet lives at her husband’s estate with her two children. She would not speak of your Mother. I thought it best not to prod the hive lest we collect more bees for Sera’s terrorism anyways. Regardless, Lady Henriette Batiste, ‘nee Sinclair, is more than aware of your ascent. She seems to remember you fondly, though there is an understandable frustration. She was also very forthcoming about her not attending the Ball. There can only be two reasons of this: one, that she is lying, or two, that she knows better than to attend. One can only theorize as to what that would mean.

Kind regards, my dear. I will be seeing you when you visit me for tea this afternoon. 

First Enchanter Vivienne

\--

She did her best not to soil the letter, reading it for the fourth time as she hung off the edge of the bathtub with her chest against the brass. She had been soaking in the oils and soaps that made the water murky enough to conceal her bruised limbs; ten days of training with Cassandra and a respite had to be called for. Or, at least, that was what Josephine required, when she found the Inquisitor sore-stepping and impatient with dance lessons in the midday. But a bath? No complaints, there. 

“This stuff is...a lot,” Sera judged as she stood several yards away, closer to the fireplace and couches. The furniture had been moved to make room for the mannequin that wore the Inquisitor’s ensemble for the Ball, nearly finished with only a few days left before they’d depart. 

Olivia smirked drily and tossed the letter to the side. She then flipped onto her back and settled. “It is supposed to be, I’m afraid.”

“Pfft,” she replied, kicking the slightest edge of the skirt fabric on the ground, clearly somewhat intimidated by the idea of pissing off Josephine, “It’s all nonsense.”

“Yes, it is.” 

A side-eye, followed by arms folding, as Sera meandered over to the couch nearest to her friend and leader. “You’re mighty loopy for a midday soakin.’ Aren’t you frigid?”

“Me?” Olivia opened her eyes fully and smiled, feeling a bit cheeky while warmth grew from the pit of her stomach until it stretched into her limbs and rose into her skin. Baths could be eternally warm if she wished them to. She had more than enough reasons to enjoy it, aching joints included. They were injuries that came from worthy exertions. 

Sera’s eyes danced as new steam billowed from the bath rim, until they rolled. “Oh, whatever.”

“Not all magic is creepily complex and morbid, you know.”

“No, but it’s all annoying. Blah blah, ‘look I can make the snow melt in my path’! Blah bleh bleh, ‘my tea doesn’t need a kettle!’ blah blah, ‘Sera, look, my scarf is warmer than yours!’”

“I have always offered to do the same for you!”

“I don’t need it!” She pouted a little, and sat back on the top of the couch, bending a leg to press her boot to it. “I don’t even like tea.”

“Neither does Solas,” Olivia countered, brow lifted. 

“I--ugh!” another rebuke, “don’t remind me that I got shit in common with him. It makes me remember that one night he said I could do magic if I tried real hard. Like it’s a game a’cards or somethin.’”

Olivia laughed under her breath and curled her legs up to her chest, her knees peaking above the water and briskly speckled with goosebumps. It would be hard not having Sera within earshot of her at the Palace; as candid as the Herald could be, she did not compare to her. If she did not have the room to say what was on her mind about the whole affair, Sera would. It was a shame, but, having someone she’d trust to be on the outside should things go awry was invaluable. And, in contrast to Cassandra, who would have left no wall of plaster and brick unchallenged to get herself on the inside despite her distaste for the company, Sera was more than happy to accept her posting. This did not mean, however, that she would tuck her opinions away.  


“That bruise looks like you either got jabbed by a pole or sucked on by a--”

“Sera!” Olivia snapped out of her contemplation, scoffing with faked offense. Sera didn’t flinch, but she did back down, watching as Olivia sunk her leg back down into the water. 

“What!? I was just saying.”

“You say a lot of things.”

“Yeah, but I know how to dodge a bruise. I thought you did, too. Or, was that one you did want…”

Once again, Olivia’s eyes narrowed, and she laid her head back in indignation. “Sera…”

“Agh, fine, fine!” She waved her hands, bouncing off the couch so she could stroll towards the stairs. “I should know better about you gettin’ all stiff with that kind of stuff. I thought if you were gonna be spending all your free time with her, at least I’d get a few juicy stories!”

“If you want juicy stories about me, you can walk down any hall or pick up any piece of paper being tossed around from here to the Amaranthine.”

Sera shrugged and whirled around on the balls of her feet, like a dancer would, only more gregarious. “Not my kind of material. They don’t give you enough credit, if you ask me. All gloom and shit, they don’t even have your clumsiness down!”

Olivia chuckled and rubbed her thigh, feeling a still-healing bump underneath the bruise called into question. “I’m not clumsy!”

A look. A knowing, cut the shit please, it’s too late in the day, kind of look. And Olivia sighed. “Fine, fine, I should be honest considering you helped deliver me from my imperfections.”

“Damn right. ‘I’m not clumsy’ she says,” Sera turns back for the stairs, her hand on her hip as she walks in both disbelief and triumph. “‘I’m not clumsy! I just get hung by my knickers from a branch for fun.’ Stretchin’ the muscles? Right. Psht…” the mumbling trailed off the further she descended, but never completely quiet. She could go for hours, and she would certainly go for at least the entire walkway back to the Hall. 

With her gone, Olivia couldn’t help but laugh more. It took a bit of the sour taste from her mouth to do so, after all -- a taste that had not left her tongue since Vivienne’s letter was first handed off to her that morning. She lingered in her bathwater for some moments more, letting time become arbitrary while it still could be, and her thoughts didn’t have to follow its dictation. 

Off on her study desk, a kettle of tea and several china cups had been put for the Inquisitor’s leisure. Beside them, stacked books with selected chapters bookmarked and likely annotated by Naomi before being handed off. They towered over the spread letters and notes from the Ambassador, handed off by a most diligent, pale-haired Mage a couple of hours earlier. Everything was in full-swing, complete with luggage trunks brought up and stacked by the long stairway rail. The Inquisition would be on the move. 

In Orlais, there was a popular little game she played with other kids when they were brought together for various socials. They would steal olives from the banquet tables and hide earrings or pendants in the pits, and place them all in a pile to take turns picking. If you found one with jewelry inside, the kid it belonged to was your sweetheart for the rest of the night. If you found one with your own piece of jewelry, you had to place it back in another uneaten olive. On one occasion, she had tossed an olive in her mouth, and bit down onto hard stone. It was not an earring, it was too big. It was not a hair pin, it was too round. And it had an end for pinning or hooking. 

Her eyes had scanned for any clues in the missing embellishments of her peers, until she saw a missing, small cufflink around the wrist of Lionel Dancort, future Lord to the house of Dancort, once he was big and integrous enough to wear his Father’s shoes without hiking them up girl’s gown skirts.

Lionel was uselessly licentious, a thirteen-year-old who would have spun her around and out like a small play thing so he could practice for the big leagues. Even as young as she was, and lacking some of those words with which to explain it, she knew. Seconds later she opened her mouth wide, sticking her tongue out and revealing nothing. One of the other girls, scrupulous in her game playing, grabbed her by her bottom lip and yanked up and down, so as to see the full view of all the nooks and crannies. Nothing. No girl or fellow would belong to Lionel Dancourt that night, and Little Lady Berenice would spend the whole party slightly wide-eyed, naively hoping the pin she swallowed wouldn’t pierce her through the heart. 

But that was many years ago. Her little heroism did not echo through the ages. Surely, Lionel continued on his path of unfettered interests, eventually became the libertine he was afforded to be, learn how to swing a heavy and shiny weapon, and marry a woman who couldn’t swallow enough sharp objects to escape him. 

Gaspard was not a man, nor a circumstance, Olivia could simply gamble another piercing of her insides to avoid collision. 

The bathwater soon stopped warming itself, and her fingers wrinkled too much for her vanity. Like always, she would have to stand and step out, and continue. While she dried off, she giggled remembering the way Henriette's face looked when she gasped and swatted her with a paper fan later that night when they had been tucked in bed together for a sleepover. Blush that rivaled the strawberry red of her hair with its saturated hue. _'Berenice! You know better! What if something had happened!? You, skewered like hog's meat with a boy's cuff pin. Uncle would have keeled over.'_

\--

The gown was indeed...a lot. And even more so was it visible when she wore it. A full skirt, but now round like a frosted cupcake. The fabric was ivory, like she wanted; and layers of chiffon-like sheerness that fell together into a collective opacity. The golden embroidery, pristine and perfect to the naked eye, almost weighed more than she did. It lined the hem of the gown in peaks and rounds of regal design like ceiling filigree. It matched the pattern falling from the bottom of her corset bodice as well as the heavy metallic leaves and vines sewn into her off-shoulder sleeves. The waist was sheerer, with white satin-wrapped boning. It looked rather delicate, yet it was thick and sturdy enough for their concoction, and that was all that mattered. 

It was her last fitting before they’d leave, in the middle of the night in Josephine’s office quarters to add to the intrigue. That, and it was the only slot of time Josephine could manage in the final days of being on their home turf. While previous fittings and appraisals had invited several seamstresses, servants, allies wandering in and out, this one was more private: only Olivia, Naomi, and Josephine. Once again, the Inquisitor held no complaints.

“I cannot help but think of what Cassan--I mean…” Naomi cut herself off, as she held the dress skirt on her palms, bent at the knee onto the carpet. 

Olivia smiled, her hands habitually sliding down her torso. “It is alright, Naomi.”

“I…” she laughed, eyeing the beadwork some more, “I mean...Ivory and white are wedding colors in Andrastian tradition.”

“Are you saying she would be offended?” 

Naomi’s mouth opened, and she gave a slightly incredulous chuckle. “In the times I have worked with her, she seems...easily made so. But no, I was thinking she would be more along the lines of awe-struck. After all, nothing stirs the heart like seeing the person you care for dressed in such a way.”

Well, she had a point. There was more to it than that, but, she had a point. Olivia relaxed her shoulders only to feel the dress push back against her. Poor posture was not in the cards for her in this particular ensemble. She could sympathize with the way Cassandra desired armor in all environments. At least with armor you could be as much of a brute with shoulders and chest position as you wanted, unless you were in the business of getting lazily slaughtered. 

Some bride Olivia would make, clawing at the gown she was supposed to love and wishing she was just stark naked. Perhaps it was for the best that she was born and made a Mage, a race that was just as much shooed from the Chantry altar as any vermin. 

Naomi continued to play with the skirt, seemingly checking for holes or mistakes but in all actuality probably daydreaming about what it would look like all turned to black like the night, Olivia got lost in the mirror. The big, broad, decorative mirror Josephine had brought in, that was easily taller and heavier than her even if she was soaking wet with a gown on. 

“I cannot help but wonder how beautiful it would look if you had a mask to match, Inquisitor,” the Ambassador herself commented from a distance, writing down something productive. Still dressed in her robes, looking as fresh at midnight as she did at dawn. Nonetheless, Olivia scrunched her nose, and adjusted the position of one of her sleeves. 

“I would rather be served as dinner than presented with a mask on, Josephine, you know this.”

“Yes, yes, filleted with sauce, apple in mouth, backside braised, I have heard it all,” she listed back, sharp and playful. Her quill scratched on the end of a sentence. “You do not need to remind me.”

Olivia giggled, and slowly rotated herself around so that she could look back at her tireless Advisor. “You know I adore you for all that you do, yes?”

“Yes,” Josephine sighed, distracted. “Yes, yes.”

“Oh, Josephine,” Olivia leaned her head back and smiled. “Come, come to me!”

“If this is more of your teasing like the kind you had during dining practice, I would ra--”

“I promise it is not! Please!”

Glaring but with a flicker of convinced affection in her face, Josephine set aside her work and walked over. Slow, still cautious, and ultra observant for any foul-play at hand. Maybe she was conditioning herself for what they would face on the other side of the road. 

“Yes?” she repeated the word as she came near, until their hands linked together by Olivia’s insistence. 

“I wish to thank you,” the Inquisitor’s fingers laced with hers, and they swung a bit like rope bridges of well-dressed arms between them. “I know you have been burning many candles here, working so that we are on our best foot and behavior.”

Josephine, in her own fashion, stonewalled in the face of complaining. “I am simply doing what I was brought here and trusted with, your Worship, I--”

“Ambassador…” Olivia couldn’t help it, tilting her chin and staring, “It is alright to be honest here. It is just us, Naomi and I.”

The Ambassador blinked, and she peered down and around towards Naomi, who pleasantly returned her glance. That was all it took, apparently, for Lady Montilyet to slouch, stomp over to the nearby lounge chair, and collapse with a precocious huff; her slippered feet flying out from under her, hands slapping down onto the felt-covered armrests. 

“All day long, it is complaints about the attire, complaints about needing to eat with proper table manners, Dorian asking about sashes or...scarves...or something to that effect? I do not know what the man wants except to dance on my nerves. Then there is Vivienne with her contacts, and Leliana and her Ravens, coming in and out, in and out, with new details I must take into account. Then the Commander insists he is to wear armor, but he cannot wear formal armor because I have already informed Seeker Cassandra that she cannot wear formal armor but the regalia we have had made for all members, and if I were to allow him the liberty I would have to allow her, and before dawn I would have every single individual rebelling against our long-decided details, believing they know how to dress for one of the most important political engagements in recent history without so much as a understanding of how one misplaced buckle can be grounds for derision! Or...or...shoes! I have finally managed to convince Sera to wear shoes that are unsuitable for climbing trees or running through the wilderness, and it only took having my office chair cleaned twice after being doused in various bakery ingredients, none of which have been presented to me in the form of a properly made torte!”

The room went a still and voiceless as a dollhouse, one rumored to dwell in the Ambassador’s quarters. Alas, that was besides the point. Olivia pressed her fingers to her mouth and checked back with Naomi, who also concealed her true reaction from the monologue. It took Josephine removing her hands from rubbing her face to stare back and see right through the veneer of solidarity. 

“Oh, for goodness sakes, you can laugh,” she scoffed, looking off towards the window by her desk. “I am fine, just get it over and done with.” Quick and silver-tongued. 

Obeying the command both women erupted into bubbles of warm, honestly endeared giggles. Still trying to keep some of it toned down, if nothing else than for the sake of austerity. Naomi even fell back onto her ass, crossing her legs messily to account for modesty in her enchanter’s gown. Yet, even in the soreness of Josephine’s temper, even she cracked a wry smile. 

“It is so funny?” she playfully sneered, hands falling into her lap. “Goodness, I never feel too far from the ruthlessness of sisterhood.”

“Good!” Olivia chimed in, still laughing, “I hope you do not!”

Josephine gave a gentle nod, and her mouth opened for more jest; alas, she was interrupted by the sound of her door opening quick and swift from the other side. Lady Montilyet never locked herself away from potential duties. Only this time, it was the visit of a warm and darkly-clothed agent, un-hooding herself only when she had swung the door back behind her. A head of thick brown hair, tousled in a nearly undone braid. 

“Liv,” she said, but paused just long enough for the door to fully shut, clicking sound and all. “Liv, have you said anything to the Seeker about what is happening with the Duke?”

All at once, the thoughtlessness of her joy bled out from head to toe, replaced by a chill. “What are you talking about?” she shook her head, sensing Naomi behind her rising to her feet immediately. “What ..?”

Veronica mulled her teeth, and yanked off one of her leather gloves. She had clearly been stalking or creeping, whatever it was her work in the Ravens now demanded. “Don’t play coy with me, I know you too well. Are you faking faces?”

“Veronica, what in the wor--”

“Naomi, please,” Veronica softened briefly, holding out her hand towards her. Josephine then stood too, all three women now facing the brusque visitor demanding answers from the Herald herself at such a late hour.

“Agent, this is not an appropriate time to be intruding upon the Inquisitor, least of all for such private matters,” Josephine took her turn to intercede. 

Yet, Veronica only glanced at her and attempted to not scowl outright. It was the kind of mercy only Naomi and Olivia could understand, watching her bite back lingering disdain. This was the first time Olivia had ever seen the two of them in the same room, let alone with nothing blocking their interaction. 

“Veronica,” she attracted her attention in order to spare the Ambassador from a tangent drama, “why are you asking me this? Did you see or hear something?”

“Gossip, you mean,” she acidically replied, tossing her gloves to the other lounge chair. She came forward with a broad stance, clearly not feeling in any way ‘not appropriate.’ “The Seeker is coming to Sister Nightingale to communicate about the mission, and isn’t getting answers. Leliana keeps finding ways to cover your ass for something, and she can sense it. Tonight, I watched it from the beams yet again, and it suddenly clicked: she knows about everything besides the bastard trying to sniff you out. So, what are you conniving?”

Where was all this mental acumen when she was copying Olivia’s notes when they were kids? 

“I am not conniving anything! I am planning my mission, and intaking all information that I can. Gaspard is one ingredient.”

“Bullsh--”

“That is enoug--”

“Let me discuss this with my best friend like I would outside this damn pin cushion of a room, would you please, Lady Ambassador?!”

Everyone made faces at one another, Naomi in horror, Josephine appalled but excellent and covering it, and Olivia, wondering just how well voices could echo into the Hall if they tried. Maybe they were about to find out, if Veronica kept up with it. 

“Veronica, apologize right now.”

“I will not. I have done nothing wrong. You, on the other hand, cannot say the same. Which is why I need to know.”

“What is the matter with you?!” Olivia squirmed in her gown which had fast become a securing device similar to the ones babies got swaddled with. Insufferable, and ill-suited in the case she would need to tackle someone. “Ugh, Naomi, help me...”

She didn’t even need to finish for Naomi to be behind her, carefully but quickly loosening the strings that had cinched her into the Maker-forsaken garment. It was just as much her handiwork to oversee. While she managed, Olivia returned her attention to Ro, who stood like an immovable stone beam, or stubborn Ferelden. Same difference. 

“Why do you care so much about Cassandra and Leliana’s squabbling? They do it very often, and with little consequence.”

“I bet they have. That isn’t my concern. What is, is that the Seeker is wondering why she cannot know all about a mission she is a part of. She is acting all nervous, like she has seen and heard other reasons to be. Leliana is not helping. Are you making her cover for you?”

“I cannot ‘make’ Leliana do anything,” Olivia chuckled humorlessly, “that is one certainty.”

“Yes, well, that is a pretty thought to have when you are the big head at the top, isn’t it?”

“If it is something riling you up to be this rude, Ro, it isn’t the Seeker’s nerves.”

Veronica’s dark eyes glared, flickers of light adding to their wrath. Her arms crossed and her chin tucked, unimpressed. “So you have not said anything about the Duke, or his fancying. You are keeping everything sewn and tucked under this monstrous gown skirt of yours.”

“I am not hiding anything. Ca--the Seeker has not come to me with any specific questions.”

“Specific questions? Meaning you will not bring it upon yourself to simply tell her what has happened. You are waiting for an arrow to be shot in the dark off a cliff to hit a small muskrat in the valley below?”

“How dare you barge in like this, and proceed to rant down to me about my private affairs?! What are you, my own personal mite-bitten Raven pecking at my neck?”

“Mite-bitten or not, you salty snob, I do not have tolerance for my friends playing games!”

“Have you drank too much tavern wine again?!”

“You’re so foolish looking when you act all oblivious. It makes me more ill than an entire barrel of piss and vinegar could.” She sauntered over to the nearest table where wine was waiting to be poured and given, and without having a single regard for the placed cups, took a swig from the pitcher. Some splashed onto her vest, but bounced off. Josephine side-stepped and grimaced, clearly beyond this realm of ‘handling’ things. It wasn’t her job, though, to clean up this mess. No, that responsibility sat squarely on the shoulders of the petite blonde looking like an enamel figurine. 

Holding the front of her gown to her chest, Olivia took a breath. With the air, Veronica’s critique sunk in only deeper. “I’m not sleeping my way into the palace, and I have made no flirtations. I am simply consolidating what I know and what my people uncover, in case it is needed as...as leverage.” Repeating the word they settled on in their formal meeting, she found it had lost its preserving dignity. 

“Right,” Veronica swallowed and cleared her throat, rubbing the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. “Consolidating information. And if you just so happen to exploit it by being who you can be in a pinch of your knickers, why not?”

It was hitting too close to the heart. In both truth, and insult. Too alike the way Veronica brewed with paranoid hatred the night she left her in the Temple to fend for herself. Foolish of her to think the woman she was then had completely vanished, or grown up.

She stiffened her expression and closed off. “I see no reason why this should concern you. I am trying to do what’s best. You cannot possibly understand all that--”

“No, Gem, you do not get to pull the on-high card again.” Ro’s boot graded against the floor, her body turning towards the entrance she so gallantly strode through moments prior. “You’re not doing what is best, you are doing what you are best at. But be disingenuous with me of all people, so you can keep the cards until the last possible moment.” She took one last look at Josephine, who by that time had started openly glaring. Veronica was tough, but even she could not leave without admitting, even in the tiniest measurement of her scowl, that it broke her heart still. She scoffed, rolled her eyes deep, and began for the door. “Gee, I wonder what pale, purple-eyed Mage you learned that from.”

Olivia wanted to go after her, to continue fighting and bickering and possibly screaming. At least, if she did that, that would mean she stood a chance at not being left alone with the shitty aftermath: knowing her friend saw through layers of carefully manicured risks, and concluded it all to be worth only a pound of rotten rice grain. 

Naomi’s hand on her shoulder didn’t help. Josephine coming nearer and looking on, compassionate and astute, was not as soothing as it had once been. How quickly it all had become a crapshoot. 

“I...I am not…” she tried, but it all came undone in her throat. 

“Olivia, you don’t have to listen to her,” Naomi cooed, rubbing her shoulder and down her arm. “She came in with an accusation in her mind, like a dog with a bone. We both know her.”

“Enchanter Ambrosia is right,” Josephine added, renewed in her energies, however spitefully. “She clearly did not come to listen, but to fulfill her own ideas of what has transpired. Give it time, and keep focused on what is ahead of you. Ahead of us.”

It was a hard choice to pin: whether to be upset at the fight, or that they both gave her the benefit of the doubt. That they earnestly spoke, and witnessed, and loved her, when she had been so mercilessly exposed. If that could happen, and she could still count on their loyalty, the boundaries were stronger than she originally estimated. Valuable, if not a bit troubling, knowledge to have. Nonetheless, it sank her stomach like a blasted-through ship. 

“I think that is enough of dress-up for one night,” she mumbled, still pressing the loosened dress to her body to prevent the cold from embracing her totally.

Naomi nodded, pursing her lips with compassion, and took hold of one sleeve. Josephine grasped the other. Olivia let her arms fall, so that she could be dressed down and one step closer to putting herself to bed for the remaining few hours she’d still have to do so. 

\--

Climbing the stairs to her chambers was every step another round of internal questioning. Was she doing the right thing? What ‘thing’ was she even doing? Veronica could’ve been completely correct, terrifyingly so. Obviously, whatever it was she was putting into motion, Leliana felt inclined to save face on her behalf. The kind of thing she did for friendly secrets, and assassinations alike. _Hardly nice to know._

She locked the last door behind her and carried herself up the final flight of stairs. The fireplace had softened in its brightness, but was still going. Enduring. Her attention landed on the bed, where the sight she both loved and dreaded awaited her. Cassandra, having let herself in like she had started doing several nights ago, asleep soundly.

The balcony entryways had been left cracked, but the spring evening air was tolerable. It could all be left alone, tucked tapestries included. It was not as if she had nothing and no one to hold onto should the winds drop in temperature, anyhow.

With minimum dedication she walked and slipped out of her pants and linen shirt, until she was standing bedside in nothing but the bottom half of her smallclothes. Cassandra was curled onto her side, facing the center of the bed, book face down and open beside her. Her hand was angled towards it, but it must have slipped from her loyal grip. Sleep snuck up on her. For a minute, Olivia sat off the edge and watched her. No sign of armor, or papers to read, or weapons brandished outright. Just her, only the bed blankets to adorn her. Her braid crown was still pinned, though: one last trace of care. 

_Why are you hiding from me?_ Why was she the picture of calm and wise when they were together, out in the field or elsewhere, only to be suspicious when they were apart? How could she be her most intimate champion, and not ask her directly for answers? She did not step back from the reality of things. She interrogated, she investigated, but she did not cover her eyes and ears. 

But if Cassandra did go to her, would it then follow that Olivia would know what to answer with? Or even worse still, if she would be ready for the kind of question she would ask? If it was not, in fact, a mere inquiry as to prospective plans, but a much more implicating anxiety? What would it be like to see Cassandra protective over someone she loved, even with just the slightest ounce of unfaithfulness?

It would be the most unavoidably awful thing, because it stood the chance of danger. The last thing Olivia wished to do, no matter the stakes, was worry that the woman she...she...cared for dearly, had become vulnerable. A woman deserving of a noble demise and was ready for such, did not deserve one for the sake of a duplicitous paramour. 

Her hands preoccupied themselves with undoing her hair from the bun that had been so neatly put up as a prospective style. More and more she desired to have it so: flowing and long, rather than the quintessential braided look. A strange new phase for her, she who began her tenure never being seen without all her hair put up and out of her face. 

Loose hair meant waking up to the sensation of it being played with, smelled, and kissed. An antidote as good as any for headaches such as these. 

Afterward she slid under the blankets. The cool, clean linen caused a shiver. The book slid down towards the foot of the bed, and she caught it just in time. With a lick of her finger she bent the slightest amount of upper corner on the page she had left off on, and closed it, setting it on the nightstand on her end. At the detection of movement Cassandra grumbled and fell onto her back yet stayed asleep. It must have been a long day.

Olivia sunk in against her, her head resting on the valley between Cassandra’s shoulder and breast. She couldn’t help but grin from the butterflies evoked when Cassandra’s arm wrapped up the small of her back without so much as a sound or stirring. The sweetest, softest inclusion. 

Betraying the perfection of it all, unfortunately, the last thought Olivia had before slumber was a dilemma: was it was so intoxicating because it was indeed thus, or because she wanted desperately for it to be?

That, and the way Veronica so boldly yelled the word ‘conniving,’ an utterance that would haunt her for far longer than the remnants of a single, overworked night.


	84. Ruben's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to the Inquisitor's childhood, before the Circle, before her friends, and before her ascension: a time when her future's uncertainty was not entirely a bad thing. Then, back to present-day: the night before the Inquisition leaves for Halamshiral.

**Justinian, 9:28 Dragon. North of the Orlesian Capitol, Val Royeaux --**

There were as many voices out down in the east wing as there were stars in the sky. There had to be. She swore, on every tip-toe, wobbly step of hers, that they were too numerous to count. Though, the stars never made such a ruckus.

“Ruben would you just admit to being the dog that you are! You make us all sick!” someone said, followed by a crashing sound. 

“No no, do not test him, Vincent! Lest we settle the score again with another duel!”

More laughter mixed with howls and ‘oh’ sounds. That must have been a very important statement, some kind of fact. Something too close to the bone. Mother would always narrate things off the side of her mouth when they were out in public mingling. _That was a very passive slight, did you see?_ Or, _Pay attention to the way she did not simply deliver a compliment, my dearest._ People talked like how flowers sprung and bloomed, one layer of color after the other. But it all wilted the same. 

Olivia alternated between pacing the floor of her bedchamber and eavesdropping. She only did so because pressing up against the door hurt her ear too much after a while, but she could manage longer and longer as she grew older. At the impressive age of thirteen, she could damn-near have herself glued to the wall. Unfortunately, an older mind tend to come with heavier footfalls, which did not service her when the sudden stomping of boots came down her hall too proud and confident to be that of a servant’s.

A soft gasp, and she was off flying to her bed, diving into her sheets so clumsily they plumed up and around her body like moth’s wings gone wild. They enveloped her and her line of sight, giving her only the sound of the door coming unhinged and opening wide.

“Berenice…” a warm, thickly-accented voice. Chiding already. 

She laid still as if her life depended on it. She was sleeping, after all. Yes, yes, several candles were still lit, the rug on the floor was likely kicked up from her last-minute sprint, and her sheets were nowhere near as neatly-tucked in as the governess had left them several hours prior. One by one, the boots she knew too well hit the marble in strong and steady beats. Closer, and closer, and closer still...until everything was dormant once more. The layers of white sheets and red duvet would grant her know insight, but her butterflies and growing smile could.

Then, ambush. Her father’s arms sprung up and over her, grabbing onto the girl-shaped pile and picking her up. Thirteen years old or not, she was still a little dove, scarcely taller than 5’2." But in her glory of giggles and kicking fits, she was pretty menacing. 

She squealed at her capture, wrestling with futility while her Father swung her around and around, still wrapped in her forsaken bedsheets. 

“What is it I have caught?!” He roared with pride, doing one, two, three more twirls until he launched her back onto the ruined bed. The gravity of her fall revealed her face and circular pin curls of blonde, framing a smile so persistent it hurt. 

“Berenice!” He gasped, feigning shock, “how could I have known?! Here I thought I had wandered upon a nymph in the wilderness!” He explained, arms dressed in puffed silken sleeves of blue. A wonderful color on him, like all Sinclairs, he would say. 

Giggling with delight she lurched up and onto her knees. “I am not a nymph! You cannot fool me like you could when I was a child!”

“Agh! Betrayal?” he placed a hand to his heart and sauntered to her, “much like the injury you have sustained to me, lying about going to sleep when you were supposed to, Madam!”

Her nose scrunched. No, she was not a child -- she swore it -- but she was not adult enough to be anyone’s ‘Madam.’ Surely there was a place in-between, something sweet but mighty. 

“I did sleep! I was!” She insisted, shaking her hair out of her face. 

“Olivia Berenice, lies? In my household?”

“I..!”

He looked at her with that look: the tilted chin, rounded brow, and uneven grin. Too potent to dare dishonesty. She deflated, slouching just like her Mother detested, blowing air like a tea kettle pot out the side of her mouth.

“I am thirteen! You still will not introduce me to your friends. You said you would when I was of age. You promised!”

His guise fell, warming in sincerity as he placed a hand on his hip, cocking a boot to rest at the heel. A standard Orlesian gentleman’s way of posture. “My darling, I will keep my promise. I am a man of my word.”

“B-but!”

“Oh? Do you wish to challenge that precedent?”

She pouted. “If it meant getting to go outside and fight with one of those rapiers you and the men have!”

He gave another haughty chuckle and sat down off the side of the bed, one knee bent up high to rest his elbow on. “You have been eavesdropping more than just at night, I see.”

“It doesn’t take an eavesdropper to...to...know what you are…”

“Ahh, see? Look at what happens when a Princess does not sleep when she should.”

“I am no Princess!” she asserted with a swift grab and toss of one of her many pillows. It hit and bounced off his back pathetically, yet he still smiled as if she had lunged in to kiss his cheek. 

“You know, my dear, you have said that since you were too young to know the meaning of the word?” He reached and cupped her chin, raising it just a tad higher than she kept it, and appraising her generously. Her adolescence was revealing her Sinclair nose and chin, paired rather favorably with her Mother’s brow and mouth. These were constant topics of discussion and inquiry, of course; why that was the case when everyone wore gaudy and hot masks all day long was the true mystery.

She shook her face free of his touch and looked off to the balcony windows. Locked for a week as punishment for her climbing down them onto the nearest trellis...again. 

“Well, it is because I am not one.”

“But Princesses get to become Empresses. Look at our sovereign, Celene.”

More pouting, doubled down on the distaste. “Père, I do not want to be like the Empress.”

“Oh?” his eyes widened, “what a renegade I have granted asylum under my roof. Then what shall you be, if not the most powerful woman in Thedas?”

She shrugged, the flowery muslin that lined her sleeping dress billowing along with her. That was a big question for so little a person. Yet, he was the only person in her world who ever thought to ask her, without meaning it as a trick or hypothetical. When he asked, her wants felt possible. 

“I do not know. Maybe...maybe you would let me join the Imperial army? I could be with you!”

“Olivia! Of all things…?”

“Yes! Please? I could ride horses all day long!” Her enthusiasm reborn, she crawled to him and took hold of his arm. “I could fight, and march, and sail with everyone! I could see things! The things you have seen, the stories...would it not be splendid?!”

“My dear, I am af--”

“Or I could become something different, so you would not have to worry about favoritism. I could become a Tem..oh, what do they call them?”

He grinned sorely. “You mean a Templar?”

“Templar!” She held a finger up, “Yes! Or...or one of those dark-dressed people that always stand about looking all mad when you do your marches through the city. The ones in the balconies in those buildings by the Grand Cathedral!”

A tough exhale left his lips. “You mean the Order of the Seekers, now.”

“Agh, yes yes! I want to have stories like you do. I do not just want to...to stand and be pretty for people to compliment me. I want to be known for more than that, Father.”

His expression changed, and for a split breath or two, her Father looked elsewhere. Looking toward the wall behind her, deep in the sights and sounds of somewhere far from where he was, sitting kindly with his only child safe and warm. His throat cleared, strained a bit as he chose his response, returning his achingly sympathetic attention to her. 

With a gentle hand he touched the side of her face, and rubbed her cheek with a thumb. “Berenice, my stories are specially made for you, for you and I to share together. It is...difficult, to explain, but do not let them lead you to believe that war is only what I have told to you as you fall asleep at night. I will...I will take care to explain more carefully when you are older.”

“When...when I am older?”

“Ahah, y-yes, my love.” 

The worst thing you could say to a child who thought themselves way past old enough, after she had just argued it was about time she saw and heard the world for what it was. In the all-encompassing innocence she tredded, such hurt was like being stabbed in the gut. It would be many, many years before she would be able to compare.

“Olivia,” he said, taking her hand. “Do you recall why it is I insisted on your name when you were born?”

She scowled and stiffened. “Mother says it is because you must have been drunk.”

“And you believe her?”

“I...I know it only has one boring meaning, that it comes from ‘olive.’ You named me after a tree. All the other girls say their names mean grace, or beauty, or...or ‘she who shames the flowers’…”

“You want to know a secret?” He asked leaning in, trying to salvage the silliness. She only stared back at him with skepticism. “Those names are all setting them up to disappoint, my dear. No one is so beautiful they shame flowers. Have you seen flowers?”

“Father…”

“I mean it! And yes, I may have named you for a tree. But do you know what that tree stands for in our heritage? Peace! Peace, and wisdom, and friendship.”

Olivia side-eyed him, still unsure even though he beamed with sincere joy. “Oh, and those are not too big for me to live up to? Peace?”

“Not at all,” he shook his head. “We are all here to learn them. The Maker wishes us to know peace, the kind that only comes from humility. And wisdom that comes from every new season. But most of all, my dear, we have come to know friendship and love for all they can be. I wished you to be Olivia so that you may be the namesake of all those virtues, and not simply a tree.”

Her heart fluttered enough for her to give in, and she sighed deep. “I...I do like that. A little.”

“Good. Because if it was not ‘Olivia,’ your Mother would have chosen Bernadette.”

“Ugh! No!” she protested, “anything but that! Yugh!”

Uproar down in the wing surged, cutting into their cackling. The name ‘Ruben,’ said and repeated, slurred into many syllables, and getting louder. Father whipped around to the ajar door and sighed fast, his hand falling from her face. 

“I must return to my guests,” he said as he stood, pinching the side of his palm.

“Alright, Father,” she conceded, tucking hair behind her ear. “I can meet them next time.”

He turned back to smirk at her joke, before pulling at the disarrayed sheets. “Come now, soldier, get in line.”

Olivia smiled, exposing her last gap from a baby tooth as she rolled and tumbled back up to her pillows. In what felt like one single swoop he had gathered all the blankets and shook them out once into the air. While they landed in her lap, her knees bopped up and down with nervous energy still humming in her muscles.

“Now, go to sleep,” he warned, patting down the velvet-felt fabric around her. “You do not want to cause the governess to panic when she tries washing those circles under your eyes.”

“Ugh!” She snorted, collapsing back onto the goose feather pillows, some of which were bigger than her. “Fine…”

“Berenice.”

Her arms crossed. “I promise.” Though, her staunch position melted as he loomed over to kiss her on her head. Getting too old for so many things, so many gross and childish things, but never that. 

“Goodnight, my anything-but-Princess,” he whispered, kissing her head a second time before leaving. 

“Goodnight.”

Everyone else’s Father was so old and outlandish in character. They dressed in pompous patterns and spoke the Orlesian tongue more than the common, and they always deferred to speaking about themselves, their lands, or their clothes. Father was never like that. Father, with his stubbled chin and cheeks, combed and curled brown hair, and round eyes of greyish blue. A man who’s most precious possession was anything but something dead and stuffable, or studded with jewels. Yet it was still too valuable to him to show off to a room full of his counterparts. Too many men like him died, leaving the rest of the world to struggle in the company of the lesser. 

At thirteen, though, Olivia had no understanding of such harsh conclusions. Her preoccupations were differently dire. For, in the comfort of bed all alone, she came to the realization her Father had forgotten to blow the candles out all throughout her room. The same ones that were lit when he visited, despite the servants having retired and blown them out with their goodnight wishes. With a lift of her finger and bite of her tongue, she resolved the matter. 

Father was indeed incorrect in his fantastical affection for her: she was no nymph. She was something far, far worse. 

\--

**Late Drakonis, 9:42 Dragon. Skyhold --**

The day following Veronica’s outburst, Olivia elected to go straight to the source. Straight, upstairs, and amidst the clamoring sounds of several Ravens. As always, she found Leliana to be ever-open to questioning. 

“Why are you concealing details so blatantly? You can hide a body and a bead of sand equally well. Veronica thinks you are pushed against a wall and blundering. Tell me this isn’t all because you have suddenly lost your edge.”

“Oh, pff, Inquisitor, please,” Leliana bubbled, visibly bidding back an actual laugh while she glanced towards the table. Far from insulted, but heedful. “It is not the first time I have had to avoid Cassandra’s full attention for certain plans I think are necessary. However, I admit, I was willing to defer to your judgment. So, maybe I...tried to push.”

“Tried to push?”

She smirked. “So-to-speak.”

Only a momentary exchange of looks between the two, and Olivia’s throat dried out. So, Veronica was not the only one who thought it sensible that Olivia be the one to tell the Seeker of just what kind of lions awaited in the den. 

“She has not asked anything of me, whatsoever. She has been quiet and...supportive.” She struggled with the last part, because it was true. She was, and now to know it was hiding definite concern? Olivia leaned against the table corner, fingers coupling together in front of her. They left for Halamshiral at daybreak, and now the odiousness of it had fast become a slippery slope of choices.

Leliana folded her arms and joined her in her perched state, bumping shoulders. “I have known Cassandra for many years, Inquisitor, but never in a shade like this. As much as I wish to give you answers for what confuses you, I do not feel it is my place.”

“That is a statement I never thought I’d hear you speak aloud.”

She smirked a second time, more happily so, and looked ahead. “She will press me more before this is all done with. I can promise you that. If it is what you wish, I will more discrete. It is probably best given how close we are coming to the bottom line.”

“Mm.” Olivia tugged at a loose stitch in her embroidered shirtsleeve edge, wanting to snap it in half and be done with its annoying tickling, but also...not quite ready. “The more I think of it, the more I do not wish her to know about Gaspard or his intentions. Maker, I wish I did not have to know in the first place.”

“Better now, than only when you have set foot through doors that can lock, Inquisitor.” 

“What is a lock to a woman who has branded a man with his own belt buckle? Men and metal are the same to me: loud and easily bent out of shape. Only, metal can actually become sharp.”

Sister Nightingale’s eyes brightened, hungry if only for sensationalism she had long lost the impulse for, and sighed through her nose. “You remind me of her, sometimes…” she let escape in a breath, before cleverness could guard her heart.

Olivia peered over, her smile falling. “Of--”

“Yes,” she rushes to say, but still softened to a degree, “but...that is to be expected. I must return to work, Your Worship. Thank you for coming, I was worried the only thing that would compel you to visit was a good argument.”

That won a subtle giggle from the Inquisitor, who in turn placed a hand on her shoulder. A final token of gratitude and validation before she would withdraw to other duties not-so-attached to the state of her bed, or her heart. 

\--

The carriages and wagons were being loaded the night before, so that all they would have to do was dress, mount horses or other means of transport, and go. Josephine insisted the Inquisitor ride with her in a carriage, but, Olivia wouldn’t budge. She belonged ahead of the line, in her saddle, and ready. 

The prettiest time of day was dusk, when the torches were all lit, and the bright embers contrasted the pale blue and greys of the skies and stone. Crickets dared to wake, and birds flew home, save for the few black ones overhead working overtime for the Spymaster. The commotion of work and conversation across the grounds settled down. It was like the way water on the shore quelled right before another wave grew.

Olivia had no issue getting her hands dirty with the rest of them, loading and lifting -- sometimes physically, sometimes with certain talents a Mage could provide -- and taking pleasure in smalltalk. Planning and practicing her best nobility skills had kept her from what she did and loved best: being around people as herself, no airs to put on or guises to pull off. 

During a lull in packing one of the last of the carts, Olivia had taken to signing off a final ledger of materials handed off by one of Cullen’s men. While she skimmed, the off-in-the-distance sound of Cassandra ordering people around entertained her. Then, an approach of determined feet ruined her distraction.

“Inquisitor.”

She smiled and continued her task. “Yes?”

Arriving at Her Worship’s left side, Varric skidded his heel to a halt and chuckled. “Looks like we won’t be traveling light, will we?”

“No, unfortunately.”

“Heh,” he sighed, “pity. Here I thought Cassandra would get her wish and see me transported in a trunk like true baggage”

“I recall a time when she would have desired that for the both of us.” She then licked her finger and turned the page, seeing more numbers and Cullen’s hurried but subtly manicured writing style.

“So, Inquisitor.” Varric people-watched, as he did best, as she wrote a note in one of the margins. 

“So, Varric.”

“How are you feeling about all this?”

“Tired and over-dressed already.”

He smirked and turned more towards her. “I know you well enough to believe you’ll recover from the clothes. How about the idea of going back to where…well…”

“Back ‘home’?”

“Er, uh, yeah,” he grumbled a little awkwardly, shoulders shrugging the way they did when he was mincing technicalities. “I mean, I of all people can understand a certain hesitation. But my prospect of returning never looked like a costume party complete with tavern knife tricks.”

Olivia snorted and shook her head, getting in her simple signature on the bottom next to the Commander’s and Ambassador’s seal. The numbers made sense, as did most everything else. All except for the growing frog in the back of her throat. 

“I am not going home, we are going to the palace to stop Corypheus,” she answered, tucking the paper under her arm so she could focus her attention on the goings-on around her. “Once that is managed, we will be leaving. Simple as shortbread, as Sera would say.”

He nodded once, adjusting the rim of one of his gloves. “Hmph. I will remember that for when I need a quick vignette for this particular chapter.”

“Yes, you can say it was a direct quote and interpretation from me, but please do cite Sera. She will slip mud into my shoes if I take credit for her musings.”

“Hah, very well,” he waved a hand, kindly so, as he stepped to the side. “Just remember, sometimes certain places and the history you have with them have a way of sneaking up on you. No matter how much time has passed, or how far you run,” he warned, then nodded off in the Seeker’s general direction, “or...who you are running to.”

His coded empathy made her heart skip, but he escaped before she could awkwardly dodge the poignancy of it. Maybe he knew that was the best way to go about it: saying the truth, then leaving it there.

She was not alone long, however: as Varric exited stage right, Roslyn entered from stage left. In her armor, fit and beaming.

“I’m going on ahead with a small group to ensure the path is cleared of any last-minute...issues,” she said, rolling her shoulders, the sound of heavy pauldrons sliding in their fit. “Sure you don’t want me in the Palace charming everyone’s stockings down?”

“As much as I would depend on you for that, Lyn, I am sure you would actually hate it after fifteen minutes,” Olivia teased as they began walking towards the other side of the yard, so that she could hand off her work to the next authority. “Besides, I will have Theia in the wings, anyhow.”

“And Veronica!” Roslyn chuckled, hand on the sword at her hip, its hilt decoration matching that of her staff attached to her back. Double-armed and double-damned, she would say. “Though, I doubt hanging off the tapestry poles is considered ‘invited.’”

“She would do well to hide herself better than that.”

“You think? She can hardly stand to be around one Orlesian, and that is because she made an exception for you called ‘friendship.’”

“Allegedly.” 

It was hard when their particular style of hard feelings was so unlike that of the rest of their group. Olivia and Theia, for example, could never argue and leave it unresolved for more than a couple of hours. Well, they used to be unable to, anyway. With Veronica it was always stalemate: neither of them knew how to admit faults without ha, as if admitting weakness was akin to getting on their knees and asking for a swift, clean execution. They would have their day...eventually. Perhaps. Hopefully. 

Freeing her hands via dispensing the report to a ready courier, Olivia dusted off and took to surveying with Roslyn in accompaniment. Everything was falling into place, from the last sword to the insane undergarments she would have to fit underneath her dress. Men were hauling what looked to be Dorian’s crate into one of the last wagons: an object she was only familiar with due to it being thrown in with their gear back in the Hinterlands oh-so-long ago. _‘Just because I travel alone and with discretion does not mean I did so unprepared,’_ he had explained as the scouts struggled to lift the damn thing. 

“So…” Roslyn poked, rocking on and off her heels, “The...See--”

“Roslyn." _Ugh, not more nosiness._

“Right, right! I get it. But...come on.”

“Come on what?”

“You...well, you are not exactly two cups from the same tea nook, you know.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Olivia briefly glared as their whispered smack talk continued, her hands going to her hips.

“Well, okay,” Roslyn squirmed, “I was just commenting on...the looks of things.”

“It looks fine and is fine. You and the girls are so critical.”

“Critical? Psh!” Roslyn denounced before spitting. “I’m jealous. Again. You have to stop doing that, it dampens my unaffected and jubilant reputation.”

“You have no reason to be jealous. I hear about what you get up to in the tavern.”

“Good, it’s surely loud enough.”

Giggles choked back in both of their chests. The Inquisitor finally gave into the silly energy, nudging her in the breastplate. The more she saw her the more she liked all the change: her short, shaggy red hair, the fullness of her face from eating well and training, the lack of tired purple under her eyes. Roslyn always led with her hunger, but not in the ways Theia or Olivia did, out of insecurity to succeed and prove fears unfounded. Roslyn was hungry for life, not for vindication. This was the kind of life she was meant for.

“Ah, well, shit, I better head out,” she said, taking a few steps. “You sleep as much as you can, and safe send off tomorrow, alright? If anything happens, just know I probably encountered it first.” She walked off, giving a wink before turning her back to her. Olivia could only giggle some more and wave. 

_Be safe, my dear friend. I envy you._

\--

  
_27th Drakonis, 9:42 Dragon_

_Journal,_

_I regret to say you will not be coming along with me to Halamshiral. It is for the better -- the last thing I need is someone snatching my personal diary to read aloud as some performance art in the palace Vestibule. I hope that the mission goes as uneventfully as possible so that I do not have to labor to recount it all for you. If so, I may need a second book of pages._

_A little over two weeks of preparation has done all it can for me and what remains of my Courtly upbringing. I feel as uncomfortable as I did before Josephine’s stewardship. I can dance, and talk, and walk right. It is not so much the actions but the implicit part: how it feels underneath it all. Finally I have ways to describe it that I lacked as a child: it feels duplicitous, and sour, and wrong._

_Yet, the worst part is...I am good at it._

_I understand what is at stake should we fail to intervene on the Empress’s behalf. I just wish the first option of letter correspondence would have worked. Maker forbid anything happens practically, for once._

_Cassandra is still acting as though all is well -- I mean, besides the understandable dreading. Every time I think to ask her what she is hiding I stop myself. Something in me, some kind of annoying bone, says not to. Is it my intuition? Could I be so vain as to believe that?_

_Vivienne and Josephine continue to lobby for their respective ideas on Gaspard, even in this eleventh hour. I cannot hardly hear myself think whilst standing in between them both. To play safe, or invest in the gambit. Either way it will require me to pay attention to this Duke who, for all I know about him, smells of mediocrity and boot polish._

_I am tired, and a certain woman is looking particularly comfortable on the couch with her book. I shall take advantage._

_O.B.S.  
_  


Last correspondence received at the Inquisitor’s desk before embarking, slid under her door out of manners --

  
27 9:42

Inquisitor,

Forgive me for not replying sooner. I did have time to look over records of letters received by us from the Capitol. I am sorry to say there is no trace of word from the house of Batiste or Sinclair. If it was indeed sent, as your cousin insisted, it must not have been successfully delivered. Given my own troubles with communication as you might recall, I would suggest we investigate further at a later date if something -- or someone -- is preventing your relatives from sending word to you.

Kindest sentiments to you, and please, do sleep.

Ambassador Montilyet  



	85. To Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night of the Ball has arrived, and getting ready has its own agenda of drama and surprises. The Inquisitor must divert her focus from wondering about her family to being able to conduct herself as a capable leader. Her past continues to stain her choices, though, and panic prevents her from seeing things as clearly as she ought to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really thought I was gonna do so much research about Gaspard's character but...you know...I love myself. So, consider it an artistic rendition of "asshole."

3 29 9:42

Nearing Halamshiral with her forces. Smaller, more covert numbers. Uninterrupted travels. - F

4 3 9:42

On the outskirts. Being housed by an ally. Guard is sufficient, but we still intercepted two  
curious interlopers. She has drawn attention. Continue watch. - F

\--

The option has been discussed to accept an invitation to stay at the Winter Palace itself. Olivia declined on account of two reasons: first, it was the presumptive usurper, and not the Empress herself, who was responsible for her attendance. Dwelling under someone’s roof on account of an adversary’s hospitality was far from clever. Secondly, the idea of being even more accessible to prying eyes and ears was a non-starter. If she was to re-enter the fray after being shut out for more than a decade, she would do so as she was made: an alienated outsider. 

Ambassador Montilyet with her auspicious connections was more than capable of accommodating -- or rather, finding suitable allies who could do the accommodating. Lord and Lady Delacroix were more than delighted to play hosts to the Inquisition. Oddly, and rather conveniently, they took to leaving the estate rather than remain attached to the hip, so that they could broadcast their clout to friends also in town for the Ball. Orlesians could be counted upon for brown-nosing of their own good fortunes. One could only wonder how remarkably nauseating it was for a man and his wife to prance around someone else’s garden swearing to Andraste that her own Herald was back at home using their piss pots.

They landed the morning of the Ball, just as planned. The less time sitting in place waiting, the less they were able to be noticed or criticized; something Leliana insisted upon wholeheartedly when travel logistics were being estimated. The grounds and land were more than enough for their humble troop numbers and the provisions that sustained them. The Inquisitor and her inner circle were afforded their own respective quarters.

Lady Delacroix -- or Sabine, as she implored Olivia to call her almost from the moment they set eyes on each other -- didn’t so much as lend her maids as much as throw them upon her esteemed guest. For Josephine’s sake, Olivia played along. The last thing the Ambassador needed was to worry about arbitrary stitching and hair styling. It was also a point of masochistic curiosity: It had been years and years since Olivia had known a life being bound and braided by Orlesian servants. The whole thing was like picking up where she left off after a violent and chaotic detour.

While she was strung and laced into her gown there was a momentary briefing with Leliana, who stood ready in the middle of the oblong and split-level chamber whilst two women, one elvhen, continued preparations on the Inquisitor like a doll. 

Another subtle pull compressed her chest. “So no word of any of my family?”

“There have been no sightings or mumblings of a last-minute appearance, Inquisitor. Your relations seem to have done as they promised and stayed put across the water.”

“Hm.” 

Her hand went to her stomach as the maid named Rosetta finished the corset backing with a bow, simple and thin between her shoulder blades that were oiled and then powdered to make her scars less...visible.

“It would be impossible to travel from the Capitol to here in the span of a day with all society having come here. The ride on land would take a week, or more, as you well know.”

“I know. I just cannot shake the feeling.”

Leliana kept near enough for them to communicate via snarky looks, but no closer. Already dressed in her black and grey military coat, breeches, and shoes, without a hood to conceal her expressions. “Do you think they mean to cause trouble, if they were to be present?”

“I--tss!” she hissed as a pin got stuck in the back of her head. Rosetta flinched more dramatically than she did, and was quick to apologize in Orlesian whilst fixing her mistake. She was no wounded, frightful woman, but she was high strung. Something about the way she was pain-stakenly quiet said she did not expect the day to end with fixing the hair on the head of such a woman.

Olivia took care and made eye contact with her through the mirror reflection. She was doing a rather impeccable job in spite of her displeasure: Olivia’s hair, curled in long and large ringlets that looked soft to the touch, half up and half down with a braid strand reaching from ear to ear. Discrete gems and sparkling powder dusted throughout. Then, down the middle part, a gold chain connected with two more coming around her temples as the bones to a golden lattice pattern of metal capping her forehead. Where they converged, a teardrop-shaped black pearl hung. A subtle testimony to how her trademark shade of both attire and humor.

“Are you alright?” Leliana chimed, a break in the seriousness of it all. 

“Yes. I’ve been poked by worse,” she answered as she pressed her palm to the shaved side of her head, kept shaved contrary to her insecurities. Turns out a clean shave felt better than the shaggy strands of a grow-out. 

The ebbing slice of green in her hand flickered as it was pressed against her skin. Voices echoed in her head, accents and swooping syllables as people would ask tireless questions about it as if it were a daring accessory choice. Pity. 

“I will need gloves tonight, after all.”

“That is fine. And a custom for these occasions.”

She relaxed her arms and groaned. “A very sweaty and inconvenient one, at that. Do not divert attention to any possible family issues tonight after this point. If something comes about, I will handle it. You have enough on your plate as it is, I am sorry for asking for such a tangent already.”

“It was no trouble, Your Worship,” Leliana comforted. “If I co--” 

Leliana turned to watch the door open without so much as a knock. On the other hand, Olivia’s heart sped and she froze in place facing the angled tall mirror, using it to see just who was stopping by. When Theia’s face showed, a slight degree of disappointment sullied her rush.

“Pardon me, everyone,” Theia said rather jovially, dressed in an outfit similar to Leliana’s -- a sign of posterity within ranks, one might imagine -- and her hair up in an atypical bun style. 

“Yes?” Olivia sighed, rubbing down the sides of her dress. 

“Well, first of all, Gem...holy sh--”

“Word for us, Agent?” Leliana said with a bit of residual ice, but with a grin rather than a scowl. 

Theia coughed suggestively, thereby ending her ogling. “Ah, uh, yes my Lady. The Ambassador sent me to check in, and confirm that we are still on time to depart in about a half hour. The Duke will meet us there, so we will only have to concern ourselves with our own people.”

“Excellent.” Her fingers played with one of her small, stud-shaped earrings. “I will make my way down shortly. Tell Josephine everything is fine and to drink water and take a breath if she has yet to.”

“I have already done so, trust me,” she assured with a savvy smile, one that Leliana promptly stared down until it waned into a more neutral expression. “Ahem, I’ll be off then.”

Once the door was shut, Olivia spun around to face the Spymaster still standing tall and unphased. “It bothers you how noble she is, does it not?”

“Nobility is easy as a display.”

“Still critical, after all these weeks.”

Leliana smiled. “Is that surprising to you?”

Olivia chuckled as she gave herself the once-over. Everything was sewn, tied, glued, strapped, and painted into place. All around the room were bookshelves, candlesticks, portraits hung of strangers -- it was as if she had never left home, but came of age. The only thing grounding her was the pain of not feeling at ease when such a thing had been her original birthright. Varric’s advice had stuck with her since the minute the passed through the Skyhold gates.

“You look beautiful, Inquisitor,” Leliana commented as she came forward, hands behind her back. “I assume the weapons attached underneath it all are as well?”

“Oh, only the finest.”

A snicker, followed by gloves rubbing together. “I will check on Josie and see if she has retained some of her good humor. I have a feeling with Trevelyan nearby, I have reason to hope.” 

Olivia matched its kindness with her own, gently waving to her. The maids came around from behind to ask if there was anything else she needed. With a no and thank you they were dismissed as well. Time to herself was a pipe dream, and yet there she was, alone in a room and dressed to kill. No one instructing her, no one advising her, no one to fill in the empty space. She stepped down from the little platform and took her first real steps in the fullness of herself, her waist stiff against the structure of her gown but not stifled. The seamstresses had done well, as did everyone else in the service of the Inquisition to put them on the best foot forward. Now, it was her turn to deliver. 

\--

The foyer to the manor was widely rotunda-shaped, a little unique for typical Orlesian design. Down the west wing and through several corridors the bulk of her party awaited her. As she walked, she slid one glove on after the other, all the way up to the elbow. Stark white, like Leliana said: a custom. 

Pairings of paintings and sculptures lined the hall, dimly lit with torches mounted in between canvases of faces, horses, gardens, and opulent scenes. Olivia walked slow amongst their company -- not slow like she did for her Father’s pyre processional, or the way she did up the stairs to the Circle tower, or up the ones that took her to Leliana holding out the Inquisitor’s sword. Slow like every step was a formulation, a dosage of something she’d need. One step for guile, one step for precision in battle, another for confidence, and then another for good judgment. Going and going until it at last she rounded a corner, the rail ahead of her until the top of the grand staircase. Hummings and conversation exchanged below.

The ceiling had windows of stained-glass that broad-casted the moonlight, bathing the walls and columns in milky, dusty blue. She leaned against the nearest column and watched: Sera, cleanly dressed but not in formal attire, bow at her back while she argued with Varric about intellectual property probably. Dorian and Vivienne making do, as they did, and likely comparing notes between home Courts. Bull, cracking a joke about the floral arrangement on a nearby end table to Krem’s and Dalish’s delight. Cullen and...Cassandra, standing towards the middle, talking out the sides of their mouths in their matching outfits they tried so hard to avoid.

_Oh, goodness, she looks…_

They looked sharp. Sharp, and clean-cut, and without the bloodied grime of armor. Cassandra, frowning but alert whilst listening to Cullen. She was swaying from foot to foot. She hardly ever did that, unless she had pent up energy before sparring or surveying a field. 

Olivia’s gown afforded no favors for her uneven breathing. This was the way Orlesian girls hid during affairs in their family homes, behind architecture and tapestries watching the ones they pined for go about their evening: daydreaming of making a grand entrance and that one person turning to look, and being every bit as enchanted as they are. A quaint, but sacrosanct ideal, and one she had exchanged for a life of staring at the grand tower doors whenever they opened and closed without welcome.

 _Now is not the time._ She would make no fuss about it. Everyone would be concerned and interested, but she would be gently dismissive like she always was -- like she had been for the entire trip.

Just as she had opted to make herself known, though, noises from the double doors took the inertia out of her moment. It was Josephine’s people who went for the doors as the guards at attention opened to see who had come calling. Surely, the Lord and Lady of the house would have warned about any last-minute visitors? No, not really, because that would be reasonable. 

As soon as they were were unlocked, several men came through, dressed well but not entirely without utility. Sporting men with their hardy shoes and thick gloves, and masks without hats or pomp. Immediately precocious, talking to the nearest tough bodies as one last man entered behind their scourging energies, cool and collected, with puffed sleeves of blue and gold. As if this was all in good, expected fun.

Olivia grinned with distaste and declined back into the shadows. 

The singular man’s voice projected up the walls. “Ambassador,” he said, giving a bow as Josephine approached. “Apologies for the delay in my arrival.”

She matched his volume as everyone had turned to look on, side-chats and jokes vanishing along with their aura of easiness. “Grand Duke Gaspard,” she said especially loud, as if to confirm his presence from every rug flea to crow flying on high...or looming Inquisitors perched along with them. “We had expected to meet you at the Palace, at your convenience.”

“Yes, you were rather kind to accommodate. Which is why I moved to return the favor and delay the inevitable displeasure of tonight.”

“We have settled well, and the Inquisitor--”

“Ah, yes, where is she?”

A reviling chill shot down her spine. If only she could shapeshift into a wyvern and let him find her. If only the stories did not match his disgusting presence all the way across a chamber.

“She is still...preparing,” Josephine replied, measured and without fear even as he obviously sought to cut to the chase.

“I can only imagine.” Words of empty compassion. “I have heard so much about her, it seems as though I have already met her acquaintance.” His comment was highlighted by rumbling sounds of clever humor from his men. Enough to justify intuitive disgust.

While he was being received and distracted, she debated to herself: would she come when called, or deny him? Could she leave Josephine and any ally who would step up with the sorry business of turning him away? How would he take it if they did? While she assessed, the strained diplomacy continued on the ground floor. Something about weather, and traveling conditions, and then hunting? 

Then, a fissure:

“--It is of no concern. I understand being unable to come when called; it was an impulse of mine to visit in order to ensure the Inquisitor was adjusting well. Tonight will be exhausting for those of us who keep out of the fray. I only wanted to continue to extend friendship built upon our correspondence.” 

_Bullshit. I can still remember what you were saying all alone with your people. You want to see me. You couldn’t stand it any longer. All the back-room talk, all the curiosities. This was an excursion to fill your hungry gut._

“...Regardless, my Lord, I am afraid we cannot expedite Her Worship...nor do I feel compelled to.” 

Josephine handled that well, even if Olivia could only hear snippets. She had gotten him to stop with his boisterous grandstanding, something quite out of line for a man who espouses sobered logic. All throughout the room people had taken to either pouting unimpressed, or glaring outright. One of the latter, of course, being Sera. She had somehow side-winded to Cullen and Cassandra by the stairwell column down at the end. 

With nothing more to be done considering the Inquisitor had stayed invisible, Gaspard made his courteous farewells, a graceful bow and cock of his boot heel to the Ambassador and Theia who had arrived at her side at some point, and went out the door. His ‘colleagues’ followed. How dare he just show up and intrude? Is he trying to set her off balance, or does he think he has special privileges owed to him?

“You do not have to do this.” Someone from deeper in the shadows of the hall, flat and sobered.

Olivia's knuckles were white from grasping the carved column grooves. “Veronica, leave me alone.”

“I can see it. You hate him already.”

“I resent him. He is dangerous and we are here to prevent danger. There is an assassination plot afoot.” 

Veronica shifted until her face was cast under a streak of brighter refraction from the glass, her skin and pressed, frustrated frown glowing. Dressed in black, like all the Ravens working a night mission, she tilted her hood a little with her fingerless-gloved hands.

“Olivia.” 

_She never says my name._ She kept her gaze on the floor and talked out the side of her mouth. “You have no idea what you are accusing me of.”

“I am not accusing you, I am begging you.” 

Her whispers hissed against her teeth. “Begging? Since when have you begged for a thing in your life?”

Veronica straightened up, her proud chest and shoulders filling with air as she maintained herself. Not so much as a word or ugly face their entire time on the road, but now this. And she thought Olivia and Theia had the flare for melodrama.

“I will only ask once more: do not do this.”

“If he is this way and I have the means to dismantle his plans without bloodshed, wh--”

“Because if you do you will never shake the muck you’ve carried. This is your one chance to break from it, and you will ruin it.”

“The muck I have carried has gotten me this far,” she fought, turning from the view and stepping fully into the corner with her stressful and somber friend. Veronica was still taller than her even with the heels Olivia wore. Taller, but not limitless.

Ro’s frown deepened, and she returned her hood to where it was. “You sound just like you did before. After all this time and trouble. So meek about the pleasures you get from your actions.”

“If I did not, you’d blame me for abandoning who I am. I cannot win, don’t you see? I am damned if I do, and if I do not. The least I can do with this binding is prevent innocents from losing their lives on my behalf.”

Veronica took one last look at her, up and down, appraising her whilst shaking her head twice. Clearly unconvinced, she sunk a bit further into the dark. 

“Mages dream about the chance to go back home and finish what they started, catching the wood sticks they’d be slapped with on fire, freezing the toes on a city guard, scaring the men who toss them around when they get caught walking home alone. Perhaps it was better that we were kept from doing so until we forgot who we ever were before. Maybe the worst thing is not being torn away -- maybe it is remembering.”

She left like sobriety did in the night: quick and bitterly, leaving a stinging taste on her tongue. Only this time there was no barricaded pantry door or sacred holy site waiting on the other side of it. That, and Olivia did not feel so decidedly the victim. The room became dizzy again, as it did when she first entered, and she fell back a few feet into the light.

“Inquisitor? Is that you?”

Dammit. She looked back and Veronica was completely vanished. That left facing the group and the consequences of her lurking.

“Yes!” she confirmed, agitated but carrying on as she made for the top of the stairs. “Apologies.”

A hesitant path turned into a hurried one as she made way for herself, still getting used to wide turns and changes of her direction. Damn gown. The crowd of a dozen or so once again collectively honed on one point in the room, only this time it was her. Her, feeling naked and pushed to her limit already, a burning pit in her stomach. 

Her vision hopped from face to face as they all softened in their own ways: Bull looking like he was about to place a bet, Dorian having to concede that even he was surprised, contrasted with Vivienne’s complete lack of surprise. Varric grinning the way he did when he was taking note of transpiring events for later. Sera, overwhelmed and over it, but pinching her hand like she did when she was feeling a strange moment of sentimentality. Josephine beamed. Theia, beside her, folding her arms and looking like a proud older sister.

Olivia had began walking while she absorbed it all, like some ghost carrying on while it spotted something shiny again and again and again. It was so rare, this kind of audience of her closest people. Rare and terrifying; what if they all saw through it? What if they all thought it pointless and asinine as caring about Orlesian politics in the first place?

She could have fainted as the bottom floor grew closer and closer after even downward step, her hands holding her gown out of the way as she struggled not to buckle. It was getting too much, the lack of air and the nerves. One foot caught on the edge of a step and disrupted her balance and she wobbled to the left. Her hand went out, instinctive but hopeless so far from the railing. But it did manage to find something -- someone -- ready and willing. 

“Uh-ohh!” she gasped as Cassandra took hold of her hand, clasping it like a courtly companion would. At the instant of her touch Olivia’s mind went from the floor she stood to fall flat on, up towards the sky, along with her heart. 

Saved from certain disaster, she hopped down the last two steps to be done with the sorry activity, and huffed. Cassandra, meanwhile, had eyes that danced with light and a face that said ‘I am endlessly frustrated that I could not see you in private.’ A face all-too-familiar with their lines of work.

“Damn underskirt,” Olivia sighed, hands flattening the gown as it rested on her body. 

“You will get used to it, the more you walk and talk,” Josephine promised, hands clapping together. “It all looks…”

“It looks like you looted a Carnival act,” Bull chuckled. “Or you’re about to get married off to a Chandelier.”

“Agh! I explicitly stated that I would not be going along with whatever styles of the sea--”

“Hah, see? They didn’t dress you up to tight, you still got enough breathing room.”

“I swear upon--”

Dorian strut in with his own interjection. “Now, now, Inquisitor, what was it you boasted while you took up everyone’s time back in the Dales?”

“She said she would not be caught dead in anything that belonged on a cake.” Krem called from the back, but the ending hesitance in his tone when Olivia shot a scowl his way curtailed him. “I...I mean, so I heard. Could have been someone else. I...had been drinking some.”

“I said that about traveling clothes, not formal wear. And what, am I supposed to simply show up in burlap with a dagger? You know, you all look positively delicious, yourselves!”

They all exchanged faces with one another, Bull pulling on his coat, Dorian fixing his collar some, and Vivienne rolling her eyes at them all. 

“Goodness, what versatile powers we comprise,” Madame de Fer mused, before snapping her fingers softly. “Come, let us leave now, before we remember the reality of our odds in that capacity.”

“Yes!” Josephine agreed as she faced the group, “everyone must be off, now that there has been time to put distance between the Duke’s party and our own.”

Various comments of feisty intent flew as people went for doors: some for the front, others out the back -- Sera, for example, had found an efficient path out the kitchen. Efficient for both foot travel and acquiring molasses cookies, or so she hinted. 

It was easy, in the moment of movement and crowded ideas, to lose track of things. Of thoughts, gravity, and sense, for example. Not to be excluded from the list was the fact of Cassandra’s hand still had hers, concealed in the folds of her skirt fabric, and Cassandra herself hanging back while Cullen took his leave.

“Are you alright?” she said discrete, as Cassandra, and not the Seeker. Sometimes, and only sometimes, were they ever different from each other. 

Olivia sharply inhaled at the sound of her voice. “I am.”

“You...you did not say you would be…”

“Wearing something like this?” 

Cassandra blinked self-consciously and looked down. “You never said anything about it.”

“I thought you didn’t like frilly formalities?”

“I don’t, but when it comes to…” her eyes bounced from the dress to Olivia’s face. It made her heart nearly stop, the lack of definitive joy or displeasure in her. 

“I…” Olivia said as her hand held hers tighter, ever-so-secretly as people disbursed. “I made a choice.”

“For what reason?” Cassandra searched in her, but found nothing but a distanced tactician in defense of herself. A facade, but an effective one. Her hand tightened in return, but only to an extent. Reluctance.

“I cannot explain it now. I will, though.”

“Later, after tonight?”

“Ah...um,” she glanced as Josephine left, Leliana and Theia along with her, meaning it was the Inquisitor expected to follow and be hauled into a carriage next. Ugh, if only she could get suddenly ill and not go. “I cannot promise that.”

Cassandra fought against the urge to widen her eyes and lift her tone of voice. As Olivia attempted to walk away from her, her handhold turned into a pleading restriction. 

“Oliv--”

“Sh!” Olivia spun and pressed her finger to her painted lips. “It is...it is better if we do not…”

There was so much to say, and so much that could have been explained in simple terms. But simplicity did not always mean sensibility, and the last thing she needed was to have the other blunt and hopelessly forward woman she knew and loved forecasting her foolishness. Veronica slicing into her was enough, and she could never -- ever -- wholly stand against an indictment from Cassandra...from the Seeker, of all people. Not when she was still finding difficulty in the last moments of the night she would have without a captivated and hostile audience.

Still, the way Cassandra lost her aura oF confidence, and her hand fell away...that itself was almost enough to undo her. The vivid color in her eyes had gone, along with any hope of the fleeting daydream where Olivia would make her entrance and have the woman she sought to claim for herself, seek her right back without censure. 

_I am doing this to protect you, please...just…_

“You understand…?” Olivia asked, hearing horses from outside whinny in anticipation of driving. That, and voices...and guards...and commands...and some laughter. So much. Cassandra didn’t take her eyes off of her. Not for a moment. And yet, she swallowed and stood back. 

“I will see you at the Palace, Inquisitor. If you’ll excuse me, I will be riding with the Commander.”

The rest of it was a blur. Watching her go, how beautiful she looked, and the way she felt as though all of her pomp and aesthetic had lost its luster. The space between the foyer and her seat in the carriage cab, facing Josephine who looked out the window with so much hope. So much determination. The bumpy ride on cobblestone. The jealousy she held for the men who rode beside them on saddles, free and independent. The sun had set, and the air smelled of flowers and blooming trees.

The twisting wrists of her gloves grew hot from the friction of her restless fingers, with the only woman who knew how to hold them free of torment having been sent off. If only she had never let go.


	86. Halamshiral (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part (1/3) of the night at Halamshiral's Winter Palace. Olivia is introduced to Gaspard once and for all, and first impressions prove as tiring as gossip does. Once the games begin, encounters with Ambassador Briala add a twist to the already intemperate goals the Inquisitor is trying to put into motion. Could the tides shift, or simply intensify in the direction of Olivia's mysterious plans?

“...During my time as a young scholar, it is true, I did get to spend time under her mentorship. It is almost funny, the way legend can build up a person before you get to meet them in the flesh. In public she was a great deal like the woman people discussed: taciturn but kind, polite but commanding. She was beautiful in a sort of way that made you melancholy to look upon her after a while. People may look at a beautiful child and laugh out of joy, or look at a beautiful painting and go still with resonance. Looking upon her was like looking out from the Hunterhorns at dawn. You were so moved and felt so small that you are compelled to weep. 

It is no wonder the Empire’s monarch has had such an apparent weakness for her even after all those years; I would strike that from these writings if it were merely speculation, but, we all know it is anything but. But, I digress. 

In private I learned a great deal of why it is so many liked her. Truly, and faithfully, liked her. She was instructive and understanding, and stood up for the underrepresented in every conversation I was present for. She was open to curiosities from her closest pupils where she would otherwise be closed off. 

There were only two parts of her history that us privileged few had to understand were off-limits no matter her affection for us, in conversation both inside and outside of her walls:

The first always being her history with a certain figure who served a key role in the Inquisition’s formulation all those years ago. Out of respect for her, I will explain no further.

The second, which was a story that many of us went to bed as children listening to night after night, a story that inspired us when we realized we, too, were Mages. A story so troubling and fascinating because no single witness’s testimony sounded wholly accurate: The story of Halamshiral.

Most of the Empire’s everyday folk know it as partial fairytale now. Where I am from, they called it “La Nuit L'empire Saignait Noir,” the night the empire bled black. I told her of this the first time I ever had an audience with her in her private quarters, like the naive idiot I was. 

She merely laughed, put her teacup to her lips and replied, “all blood looks black in the dark.” I never brought it up again.”

\-- An excerpt of personal memoirs of a ranking Orlesian scholar and Mage, Enchanter Serafina Courtiard, written in 9:84 Dragon. The scholar’s Mother was confirmed to be Enchanter Odessa Courtiard, a veteran of the Inquisition and Mage Rebellion, who died in 9:78 Dragon.

\--

She entered with a marching line of Inquisition guard, though no one gave a care as to their cohesion. No, it was all about her: the way she looked like she fit in as well as someone’s visiting cousin, hailing from some beautifully refined culture. The front courtyard was smaller than she remembered. Admittedly she had only ever seen the Winter Palace once, when she was brought as a small child for a distant relative’s wedding. Wedding? Or pyre burning? Who could know.

Gaspard’s deprived personality was stronger the closer you were to him, leaving you more susceptible to headache, like some musky cologne. He spun around to watch her enter, he himself standing by the center fountain alone. His mask could not conceal his closely shaven head, or his stubble, or his skin that appeared as grey as what hair would grow if he allowed it. 

There was one remarkable point to him, though. Contrast to how he looked when he visited her at the Mansion, he was wearing formal armor. The blue, puffed coat was gone, replaced by red and green fabrics and fur trim underneath his metal. 

When she processed to him he bowed lower than he had for Josephine and her accompaniments. The weight of every nearby pair of eyes and ears bore down on her as the distance between them went from yards to feet, and feet to...well, less than that. 

“Inquisitor,” he purred, inspiring the shiver in her spine again, “it is an honor to meet you at last.”

Olivia swallowed, her periphery full of onlookers, as she bowed her own head. “My Lord.”

“Rumors of your travels have blanketed us. They say you fought an army of demons in the desert, leading your people to victory almost at the cost of your life.”

“The Commander leads our forces,” she deferred, hands coupling together as she came closer, “I am merely a student of my post.”

He chuckled and turned, a half-step in his footwork as he kept up with her strolling. A quick and clean way of sizing him up. When they ridged the rim of the fountain and halted, he continued his charms. 

“Imagine what you could do, then, with the support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais.”

“That is a fascinating hypothetical, my Lord. One I am sure many here have a critique for.”

He eyed her, and folded his arms high on his embellished chest. “You never know, Inquisitor. I would think the most important point of view would come from the source.”

“Ideally, yes.” Her arms fell as she shifted towards the bubbling fountain water. “Though, if things went according to the intent of the most powerful, I would still be a disinherited woman locked away in a tower.”

The mention of the Circle flew over his head -- either that, or it was too irrelevant to his needs. Whichever the cause, he let it slide. “Ah. Well, in any case, now you are to enter the Winter Palace as a guest of a usurper. How does that feel?”

Here was a point, and she took it, like second habit. “It is…” she let herself fidget, scanning over her shoulder, and then locked her eyes back on him. “I admit, my Lord, it is discomforting.”

“Oh?” he picked further, and she took it as a chance to veer in subtly closer.

“Well, let us just say, the most fraught battlefield one can face is one that has known the soul behind a soldier, yes?”

Even through the narrow slits of his mask, she could see the enhanced glimmer in his eyes. “That sounds strangely like an old phrase among the older Chevaliers.” He then stood back, and marveled at her. “Your father, I hear, was one.”

Her stomach churned, a sickening habit as of late. “Yes,” she affirmed as she swallowed, “one my Father favored. Perhaps you knew him?” 

Once again his claim to disenchanted lack of vanity was disproven; the palpable shift in the air, and his maintained distance and frown, told her everything about how he felt about that comparison. 

“It is possible, though I have no recollection of Sinclair.” Definite and slightly cold, he folded his arms again. 

She grinned and quelled the subtle victory at having gotten him to utter her family name. One domino piece slid into place. 

“I am not surprised. He was not near the echelon you were,” she comforted, waving an arm halfway towards him as if she were to place it on his arm, but failing to at the end. “Forgive me, my Lord. When I am nervous, I play. It is how I get to know the terrain before me.”

His scowl softened, and propped a pensive hand by his mouth, fingers grinding against themselves. “You are treading carefully, Inquisitor, and I cannot blame you. Do come see me inside when you are ready to make our entrance. They will be telling tales of it into the next Age.”

“And I am sure it will not be the last tale they tell of both our names, if I may be so psychic.”

The edge of his mouth ticked up as he turned to the side, and in what felt like a last-minute impulse, he reached and took hold of her hand to put to his mouth. He did so without a kiss -- to do so would have been foolishly obvious. The maneuver itself would standalone. She let him do it, too: that was the worst part. Getting what you wanted but not what you liked was the trademark of diplomacy, was it not?

“I will see you,” she uttered back as he let go and left. 

Across the grotto of stone she searched, not for any one person, but to commit to an aesthetic. I need to look out of place. Rubbing up her arm, pretty but with no belonging, she saw familiar faces mingling. Her allies were doing their best to amalgamate, even if it was just pairs of them in the fray of masks and hoop skirts. 

“Is that the Inquisitor?” a woman nearby inquired to her companion. It was met with a disdainful scoff.

“A Mage? Bah, there must be some mistake!” the man countered.

“A Mage, but of Orlesian nobility. Though I see nothing and no one of her pedigree. Perhaps it, too, was convoluted?”

The first woman did a ‘tsk’ sound. “She is climbing like it, did you see her?”

“Yes. I revile it already.”

Olivia took her time retreating from the epicenter of the yard, soaking in the eavesdropping. Another domino.

\--

Their processional into the Palace ballroom floor was every bit of exceptional as Gaspard alluded. This time she did not fall off the steps or stumble, though maybe it would have helped her see reason. One more time Gaspard took liberties with her hand, rather than proceed side-by-side as individuals. His smile said it was solidarity between outsiders. His grip, and the way Celene stared pretty daggers into them both, said it was a prediction. 

Nonetheless the Empress welcomed her; her gallant nature did its best to rub off on introductions between the Inquisitor and Gaspard’s sister, Duchess Florianne. The third figure in the royal family was less inclined to fall over herself. Her withdrawal from the bannister gave Olivia the out she needed to end their reception, and get to business. 

What ensued was nothing short of tailored chaos: Leliana pulling her aside for a lead in an Arcane advisor mysteriously promoted not to long ago. That, and the obnoxious paranoia that set in after Gaspard mentioned something off-the-cuff about Ambassador Briala and ‘her’ elves. She almost wished she wouldn’t find anything suspect so she wouldn’t have to listen to a bunch of Orlesian fools be vindicated in their ugly prejudices. Unfortunately, passed notes, some more covert listening, and a trellis wall climb -- the last one was probably the least aggravating to accomplish -- proved her wishes wrong. 

Briala was up to something. Gaspard was up to something. Everyone was up to something. And the sound of caprice coins being flipped off of nails graded on her nerves like it did all those years ago. _Wonderful._

Instead of go to authorities or to the Duke for vindication as to what she found, it looked best to go to Briala herself. After all, the talks had melted down after the first hour, with all three negotiators retreating to their respective balconies to lament their egos.

When she found the Elvhen woman for whom the torrid stories that dripped down the Imperial Court held condemnation for, it was surreal. She was petite, her dark complexion cloaked in green robes and mask. Hers was quintessential, but of no house or legacy. When she looked at you, you did not tarry with letting weakness show. 

“Briala,” Olivia said low as she accompanied her in the cold air, sorting out her skirt. “Or, if you’ll excuse me, Ambassador.”

Briala smirked dry, her hands relaxed at her sides. “Inquisitor. You have not made nearly a wave here as predicted. I suppose that is to your credit.”

“The night is still young In any case, I have not come to waste time.”

“Your attire says otherwise.” She tilted her chin. “But, go on, if you must.”

Olivia took a breath and pushed her shoulders back. Just as she did with Celene, only with Briala it felt genuinely afforded. “There are traces of your spies all over the Palace. If you are conspiring something, you must know the risks there are in it aiding Corypheus’s cause.”

“You think I would bring both my people and myself here and orchestrate an assassination? You cannot be so easily guided as to believe that. I have heard too many stories of you being anything but gullible.”

“I have heard ugliness of you, yet I do not take it as fact.”

“Slander and celebration are not equally condemning, Inquisitor. I stand by my point: if Celene dies tonight, the blame would sit squarely on my shoulders. If not for past circumstances, me being who I am would be enough.”

Keeping up the out-of-sorts act was growing old. The loose ends could be tied so much quicker of Olivia could just be who she was, and what she was educated to be. It was almost enough to claw out of her gown and yell. Briala’s presence was especially tempting for a slip-up. If it was anyone Olivia secretly harbored creative ideas for, it was a connection like her. The way it felt to merely be in her company was invigorating for a visionary’s heart. 

Olivia held her tongue and looked off towards the view, swallowing stiff to convey frustration. “I have come with compassion in tandem with my determination. If you say as much, my investigations will continue. I do what is best for the threats the world faces, not just a single interest over another.”

Briala gave a wry look, a hand going to her waist as she edged towards the balcony entryway. “You are a curiosity, Inquisitor. So much fame, and for what? I wonder. Here, it is not a matter if something is a charade or not, but for what purpose the charade is used.” Her eyes at her back were the last sensation of the conversation before she went back inside, nothing more to say for the time being. 

The Inquisitor sighed and slumped her shoulders. The tails to chase were by no means downsizing: she still had the body in the balcony room upstairs to account for, as well as the Arcane advisor somewhere in the grounds working with veiled impunity. 

Back inside she looked down either walkway in order to plan her next steps. Vivienne and Leliana were on the other side, observing. Cullen, poor Cullen, was getting his ears chatted off by admirers. If she had time she would save him from the misery. Josephine was entertaining the nosy questions of her darling younger sister. 

“Inquisitor!” a delighted accent called from the corner, towards where Celene still sulked. Three woman, dressed in similar garb and masks, waved her over with small gloves and coy smiles. The sight was enough to fill a contingent of battle-weary warriors with dread. 

Taking one more inhale of endurance she looked away to roll her eyes so that when she returned her gaze she would wear a fake smile and polite affection. 

“Yes, coming,” she said as she went, and braced herself for another twist to contend with. 

\--

Excerpt from Sera’s final report from the Halamshiral mission, submitted to Sister Nightingale directly:

First it was all ‘do not worry, Sera, I am not pulling anything.’ I didn’t need to hop down from the beams to see that was rubbish. But she was going all over the place: first to wing after wing, scraping up all the dirt besides the kind I told her to go after. 

Then she got to talking to Briala. Then some ladies in ruffles who looked like they were eating their collars. I do not know how she managed talking to any of their lot. 

"...Things got fishy again after she crossed paths with the lady with the big red dress. Viv can tell you what she’s called, I’m tired of having to say it. Morry? Morgan. Morty? Scary one, she is. They went on a hunt after they pecked each other’s ears. Nothing was right: she was acting all quiet and sad, Seeker wasn’t talking either. They always argue, that’s how you know it’s going well. Made me nervous, I nearly sprung an arrow onto a statue’s arse…"

\--

Venatori blood pooled on the floor at the end of it. She’d lost count of how many they had to cut down from the moment they descended onto the courtyard, to getting to the top floor parlor chamber. And who else would stroll in with a knife to the final enemy but Briala, herself, clean and prim as a whistle in everything but intention. 

To be fair, at that point in the evening, Olivia couldn’t say she was any better.

“Your skills are as advertised, after all, Inquisitor.” She strode the stairs to the long balcony with ease, missing the coagulating mess with her footfalls. “It will take a month to get the blood off the marble.”

“Hah,” Olivia huffed, sliding her knife back into its holster at her waist, her staff in her other hand. Amazingly her hair was still intact, save for a few eschew twists caught in her mouth. One poor bastard try to pull her by it, but a move the Seeker taught her proved a saving grace. If only she could say the same for the Seeker’s attitude, as her despondency further alienated her. 

“Well,” Briala continued, taking note of the grounds below. “Does this mean I can hope for more from you than complicity?”

Olivia spat out the side of her mouth once she felt blood splatter trickle down with sweat. She joined Briala out on the balcony platform, whilst everyone else took note of the damage and secured the surrounding halls. Some of Briala’s people had appeared soon after her bold entrance, keeping to themselves but nonetheless relieved the hunt was finished.

But then, there was the question at hand for her to answer. 

“If I am complicit in anything, it is the Inquisition’s interests,” she stood firm, wiping her chin.

Briala grinned and shook her head. “Would it not stand to benefit us both then, if those interests aligned?”

“Please tell me I won’t have to utter the phrase ‘Gaspard was right about the elves.’ I cannot take anything else mixing bad with the wine in my gut.”

She quietly looked away again, sharp and thoughtful. “Gaspard thinks he knows better, as I am sure you know very well. His tents are prime for perched boots and ready ears, are they not? Or were your people less descriptive in their reports?”

Olivia held her breath, eyes steeling on her would-be adversary. “What are you after, Briala?”

She faced her head on, and dusted off her clean hands. “I am wondering, again. What would you do with Elvhen spies at your disposal?”

“Perhaps the same as I do with our own spies. Their utility is self-explanatory, no?”

Briala smirked and fell back a few feet, before halting confidently. “Once again you play simple. I can only imagine how much of a fascination you are to him. When you are done playing puzzle box, maybe think about my offer. Consider it a thanks for your services to me and my people.” With that she scaled up and over the rail and was silently lost to the night, again done with negotiations of words for now. 

Olivia’s imagination was abound, as Briala likely foresaw. Coquettish all evening long, but this...this was something to chew on. A fringe operation in unison with her own, and an organizational ally in Briala of all people. There could be so much accomplished, so many more back room and alley wrongdoings within their reach of justice.

She rubbed her palms rough and slow as she rejoined her group. They were wiping off blades, blowing ash off of staff ends, all the chores of post-battle. They were safe, and save for a few scrapes and cuts, untouched. It was a swift beating. 

Posed cool on other side of the floor, Cassandra finished off a final swipe of her sword blade and sheathed it, her shoulder turned away from the Inquisitor in the balcony archway. No checking in, no snark. They hadn't battled like they used to, like they typically linked together. She still followed her, though. In a morose way, it was out of sight, out of mind. Or was it?

Olivia bit her lip, just in time for Bull to notice and get chipper from the adrenaline. “What’s next, Boss?”

Collecting herself, she took a last look at the bodies all wrapped in Tevinter cultist garb, hoods and all. With a sore exhale she kept her staff at the ready, and stepped down from the platform.

“We get back to the Ballroom, so I can attend to some new details.” There was still the issue of Gaspard's dagger, though the placement of it was too idiotic even for his apparent talents. That and the fact that Venatori somehow infiltrated and circulated the place writ large, only to be put down by the Inquisition come knocking with heavy fists. Someone was holding an open door for trouble, one more than either Gaspard or Briala could afford even with their connections.

On the way back through the hall they skimmed bags and equipment for notable artifacts to take. In the side room where a fire still burned, the vault they had cracked open had awaited them. 

There was nothing remarkable in its portents, except for a single item: a locket, of Elvhen origin, Vivienne was astute to note aloud. Olivia had left it behind, her attention called to hollering of more enemies in the way to strike down. On the other side of this round of violence there was a decision to be made. 

“I cannot imagine it was smart of Celene to keep it here in such obvious a state,” Vivienne commented as Olivia came out of the vault, pendant in hand. Her thumb wiped across it smooth. It was not dusted over like everything else was.

“Hm,” she replied, as they all looked on. “I think we all know, then, who its original owner was.”

“Indeed. That, and what it could inspire.”

Olivia shot a glance at Madame de Fer. A knowing, empowered one -- though it was not an entirely clean ethic behind her inspired mood.

“Did Celene not burn alienages, and conspire to kill Briala’s family? Did she not unleash bloodshed for the humiliation cast down by a play, of all things?”

“Inquisitor.” 

Another contentious stare between the Mages, and Olivia came to the fireplace. It was so easy to find. _What if someone else was meant to find it first? What if it was poised to make a heart ache, rather than an interloper intrigued?_

“Inquisitor,” a different voice -- a Nevarran one she knew all too well. “What are you doing?”

Oh, so this was what compelled her to speak? Olivia shifted back a step and returned Cassandra’s onlooking. She was worn, sweaty even. The progress had not been easy through all the rooms, up the stairs, to where they were. The Seeker didn't tire easily, however. Perhaps it was not fatigue, but rather forlorn need to make sense of something, anything about the way events were unfolding. Not even that was enough to deter the Inquisitor into a spell of clemency.

“Celene has pieces on the board we have yet to uncover. She can do without this one,” the Inquisitor finally answered, back towards the fire. With a swift toss, the locket flew from her hand and struck the lively embers. A crackling sound, followed by wood crumbling on impact, then nothing. The locket’s yellow gold blended in with the limbs of flame.

A few seconds of silence. Her fists clenched, the stickiness of dried blood still between her fingers. The night was far from over.


	87. Halamshiral (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of the Halamshiral saga. Olivia adjusts to new options on the table. While she does her best to move forward, unexpected encounters with both Celene and the Duke cause friction. The wheels are fast malfunctioning.

Excerpt from Vivienne’s field report after Halamshiral --

  
"...The dance with Duchess Florianne was a particular event. It did not take more than a second for anyone with a clue to understand the shift it caused. The tension in the room had become palpable beyond that which someone could swallow down in a gulp of wine or off-hand criticism. The Inquisitor handled herself well; so well that even I had to commend her. It was not enough, as we all know now, for certain variables to discount themselves. 

I am never surprised by anything. That night, however, I came uncomfortably close..."

\--

Orlais was not the Free Marches: when you were taught to dance, you were taught to dance from all sides and all roles. Girls were instructed on how to lead as well as follow. Seven-year-old Olivia could never have predicted that her lessons would end up aiding her in a fraught entanglement with a Grand Duchess who was rather handsy for some reason. 

The Advisors were especially concerned at the change of track. Why would Florianne intercede if it was her brother the throne was first meant for? “Blackest treason” on the part of a certain person. Those were beautiful words. Vain words. 

Removed from the crowd, the four of them did their best to put together some semblance of control for the outcome of the night that was fast becoming unmanageable.

“So that means the attack will happen tonight,” Cullen concluded after the servant’s quarters debacle was finally explained. Hard to believe all of it had happened before the clock could strike 10. He folded his arms as Olivia half-sat on the railing, breaking her guise of courtly grace in favor of her own typical style for the first time since arriving. 

Josephine disagreed with the initial option of evacuation. “If she flees, it will confirm a defeat.”

“Then perhaps we should let her die.”

All their confused faces found a home in Leliana’s composed but sinister position, most of all the Inquisitor’s. Let her die? After all this bullshit and stress, let the one occurrence we’ve been tasked to prevent just run?

Josephine was, of course, against such a divergence in the plan. Not just for congruence, but for ethics. Cullen was more easy to sympathize. The discussion was short but nearly explosive; Olivia couldn’t believe that she would suggest something so costly in plans, so late in the Game. 

“The right decision is not always the easiest one,” the Spymaster rested her case with wisdom both her and Olivia learned almost too-well in the work together.

A rock had been growing in the back of Olivia’s throat since the Advisors came to her. Their presence and fixation on the next move only enhanced the growing disturbance in her internal compass. With the added hypothetical of Celene’s fall, the mess only grew. She owed nothing to the Empress except time and labor invested in keeping her alive for the greater picture of Thedas, a picture that was not promised. Sometimes the comparative option to complete destruction only looked more desirable because certain doom was worse than postponed. 

She broke from them without a clear call, even though every tactical voice in her head fought her on it. Leading meant opting for clarity whenever possible, but so much about this blasted mission made swamp water look like freshly cleaned looking-glass. She resolved that she did not need a political goal in order to carry on with the necessary next step: getting into the Royal Wing, and seeing just how useful this alleged mercenary caption could be to their needs.

She made her way around the upper hall overlooking the ballroom, a spot she only treaded just to confirm with Cullen that their men were moving into place before she took herself and her closer allies back into conflict. If only the party was done with her enough to go on ahead. Unfortunately, her highness and co-hostess of the affair had other designs.

“Inquisitor.” A dignified tone from the long table in the corner, just off to the side of the front balcony. A nasally, dignified call. 

Olivia stopped and spun. There she was, deep blue gown, golden sun on her back. Matching mask framing her blue-dusted face. Ice-blonde hair braided; it was not as light as Theia’s, and certainly age had done its part to create it.

“Yes,” she replied, like a sore in-law being finally acknowledged by the family matriarch. _Embarassing._

“Won’t you come here?” Celene asked with a smooth loop of her hand. Olivia obliged, but her ankles grew heavy like stone with every incremental step.

The Empress sashayed towards the window behind her, its light casting beautifully against sparkling particles in the air of grey and brass hues. A similar kind of vision to that of her first discussion with Vivienne so long ago. Orlesians and their windows: companions in delicate interactions. 

Once she arrived, Olivia reformed her posture and have a nod. “Your Imperial Majesty.”

“You must forgive me for being unable to talk with you sooner. I am afraid the evening has done well to swallow good time. How are you finding the Palace?”

Olivia’s gaze fell to the rustic engraving in the window sill. “It has been nothing short of eventful.”

“I can see, from the particular kind of blush off the side of your lip.”

Her eyes went wide as she pressed her fingers to her mouth, pulling them away to see that indeed, a certain kind of crimson touch stained. The quick wipe off before re-entering the festivities hadn’t done the best job. _Shit, did I dance with Florianne while this wa--_

“Hm,” Celene smirked, pulling a linen handkerchief from out her wrist and handing it to her. The woman had a literal trick up her sleeve. 

Olivia eyed her, but did not refuse. As she demurely dabbed, looking like it was a bit of sauce from an appetizer rather than a Venatori trying to smack her in the face with a dagger hilt, it gave the Empress a chance to be a bit more than sweetly resigned.

“You have walked in on quite the storm, have you not? And with so many curiosities about who you are. A daughter of the Empire, like me.”

“I have a…” Olivia carefully pondered while checking the cloth for continued bleeding, “a difficulty comparing us to each other.”

“Do you? I do not.”

“Oh?”

Celene grinned sorely and pointed to her own ear, just above the corner of her jaw bone. Tapping twice. Olivia blinked, then the coldness of her skin that was not caused by the dangling of her earring answered her wordless question. She folded the linen and pressed the clean part to her neck, where the soiling of more tricky wounds vindicated her Majesty’s guidance.

“You are young. Not as young as I was when a great responsibility was placed upon me, but young enough to know that malice for it is inescapable.”

“And…?”

“You have done well to make up for where inexperience would isolate you. You lead a great force, have conquered every major challenge to your power thus far, and you do so with a kind of artfulness.”

Olivia frowned and removed the cloth from her skin, rolling it between her fingers tightly. “Is this your way of complimenting yourself through my standpoint, Celene, or have you yet to land your point?”

She returned the handkerchief, and Celene refolded it between her soft hands like a used dinner napkin. Tossing it to the table corner beside them, her hand went to rest on the back of the chair, the other pressed against her gown at the waist.

“I trust my Ladies have communicated to you what I could not.”

“Of your interest in working with us once these talks are resolved in your favor? Yes. Recommendations on accompanied foods with the wine selection? No.”

“Hm,” she humored again with distracted entertainment, “very well. I am unsure whether to interpret your wit as an affirmation or rejection.”

She was provoking but without follow-through. Olivia looked back at the menagerie of people and the decorations they brought to life in their attitudes and fixtures. People could not be bothered with the real ramifications of failed diplomacy here, despite their ineptness at anything resembling real and violent conflict. Gaspard could have run a spear through Celene during the reception, and someone would ask to borrow it to cut the dinner ham later. All they wished to do was sit back and watch, take in the goings-on like theatre, the kind they had all been caustically raised to contribute to.

“I have also gotten the chance to speak with Ambassador Briala,” Olivia threw in as her attention refocused on the Monarch before her. “She is by all impressions a capable woman, no?”

Celene strained beneath her facade, the glow in her subsiding for pragmatism’s dullness. “She is...very capable.” 

“And you do not think she would have just as much of an interest in derailing these plans as Gaspard would?” _Do you not think she also has just as valid reasons for doing so?_

“Briala…” Celene fought a scowl, “she was and is never one for unnecessary bloodshed. She has reasons for peace, as do I. As do we all. I am not here to create a precedent of paranoia when the Empire depends on me to see us to prosperity. Even in uncertain times such as these, where your leadership is necessary.”

“I refuse to see how burning innocent people’s homes and abandoning allies dependent upon your defense to cultivate prosperous beginnings, all-do-respect, your Grace.”

“No, I do not suppose you do. And yet I hear you left a Warden ally to face an unthinkable monster in the Fade realm.”

Olivia’s stomach sank as Stroud’s bloodied face flashed through her mind like a lightning strand. Her tone went frigid. “That was diff--”

“Wasn’t it? Are we not all faced with impossible choices?”

“Impossible choices.” She repeated with venom in her spit, stepping back. “Impossible,” again, as she stared. It was her turn to imagine daggers going into the other.

Celene nevertheless stood still and reveled in her point, however indelicate it was. Expensive, too, considering she was dependent on the woman she was simultaneously exalting and exacting for her life and throne. 

“You know, Inquisitor,” she said as she moved past her, slow and indulgent. “You decorate a scar very well.” She stopped, and leaned her lips towards Olivia’s ear as she looked ahead towards the wall. 

“One might even think you’d wish to embellish it was something more substantial than a lattice crown and pearl, no?”

Her shoulder hit hers as she walked past, gowns sifting against each other like clouds soaked in the skies. Everything was burning: her hands, her gut, her heart, her teeth. The very audacity of her to in one breath lift her up and then reduce her. Was Olivia not a guest as Inquisitor, but as another Orlesian up-start with extraordinary credentials?

An additional domino forged with an ugliness arose and fell into place. It wasn’t about mystery, anymore, but answers. And oh, did she know how to obtain them. 

\--

She was somehow stomping and floating at the same time. Priming her gloves she landed in the side balcony where her gloriously irreverent escort for the evening leaned on his elbows atop a round table, swigging back another mouth of wine. 

_Wine, not brandy._

“My Lord,” she breathed as she advanced, letting herself look somewhat alarmed. 

He peered up, goblet being swiveled in his grip nice and slow. “Inquisitor. No doubt you have heard the talks have fallen short.”

She inhaled and stopped her advance, just short a yard of floor between them. “I have heard nothing.” Lies. “It was my understanding you were doing well.”

“Hum,” he snorted, standing upright. “You have been busy, then, as I have heard.”

“My Lord?”

He smiled with resentment, and swiped the goblet off over the side of the balcony like a pebble across water. He then turned his back to her, giving her the liberty to glare at the back of his imbecilic head. 

“Do you know why I agreed to invite you here, Inquisitor?”

That same rock in her throat dug in and she stayed still like a peak. “I can only refer to your writings and say that it was to capital--”

“Agh!” he hissed, cutting her off. “End it already!”

Oh no. He wasn’t smart enough to figure everything out. No one knew, except for her, what her playing board strategy was. It was anomalous for a reason. If he was onto something, it was merely a piece, and she could maneuver. Still, the feeling of being cornered, even if only temporarily terrified her more than she’d admit to others.

“You cannot possibly be this…” he said as she approached, aiming for the balcony edge next to him. 

“This…?”

“This disappointing.” 

_Oh, fuck you._ “I beg your pardon?”

He side-eyed her when she placed her hands on the marble rail. In a way, she could almost hear a single piano key hit again and again. A one-point rhythm, like counts for a dancer. Such music was used in theatre performances to signal a change in the narrative, or add dramatic flare. Such a small note, a singular use of instrument, but it conveyed impending disaster.And so the note began its interlude. 

He growled under his breath and sucked on his teeth. Prime frustration for a chauvinistic man with too much alcohol coursing through his veins. “You, Inquisitor. You, and the stories...the heroics. You have captivated every man’s imagination I come across. You arose from nothing and took what was not yours to have. Or so I thought.”

She lifted her chin as the burden of his imagination landed on her. Not daring to connect their eyes though the spoiling sense of his singed the side of her face. 

“You say that as if you disagree with my ambitions to save this world and stop the biggest threat to its continuity,” she said simply, rocking onto her toes ever-so-quietly underneath her skirt.

“The thing I hate most in this world is when a person does not deserve the merit of their position, but comes to it out of unjust favor.”

“You would think an anchor in my left hand a machination of my own mind?”

He stiffened up more, as if that were possible in his state of stone-faced wrath. “So it is true, then? That you have stumbled into this, and there is nothing extraordinary? The stories are just as they are?”

“Stories are stories.”

“--All of them?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. It was as if she could feel her own shadow grow, sweeping like a storm upon the ground behind her. If she turned around it would duck and cover out of sight. Her mouth was dry, but it was not helpless. In fact, it was slipping into its element like a limb of a tree would into a pool of tar.

“My Lord,” she purred with reopened vision. “If you wish to know, you need only reach.”

He was foolish, and selfish, but he was not unbeknownst to permissions. Especially if those permissions were things he wanted all along. They looked at each other, and she lifted a brow slightly. At that, he side-stepped to her and put one arm around her waist, clutching at her as if she were going to run. But she wouldn’t run. No, there were no more days for it in her life. 

His body was against her back inch-for-inch, so strong that the tips of her concealed cross-blades embedded into her skin to a nearly painful degree.

“You…” he asserted, nose and mouth into her hair and behind her ear. “Please tell me who you are. I must know. I must know what has been haunting me…”

She froze, her fingernails clinging into the marble for grounding. The intake of his breath against her head, the way it sickened her...the way he wished to consume her and at the same time, harness something otherworldly. Devour the undigestable. Satiate a hunger for something that could not fit between teeth or down the throat of a man so disgustingly unprepared. 

“I could give you everything…” he slurred, begging. The smell of booze wafted in the air. “You...you could give me everything…”

Her eyes closed again. _And what will you be, my darling, if not the most powerful woman in all of Thedas? ___

____

____

She lost the nerve and took hold of him instead. One hand sleekly gloved found its way between them until her palm pressed squarely against his stomach. With clearer vision, she tilted her head back against him and smiled. Then, she sunk in. 

“You know, my Lord,” she narrated as he gasped. A guttural one, like a fist had found its way in an undercut punch. Her nails pressed into him like talons, compelling him to lean further over her shoulder. 

“W-w-”

“I know that the Imperial reserves cut their wine. They have for the last seven years, to deal with regional droughts. The wine here is watered down better than the gardens.”

More choking, soft and winded. He braced against her despite her being his sudden worst nightmare, and then he started to...shiver.

“In the Circle we study what we are talented in. We work, and suffer, and hone ourselves. Day after day, year after year, until the day we die in desolation. I was what you would call an Elemental: I harnessed skills in the natural forces.” She then chuckled as he placed more weight on her. “Now now, I admit, my favorite is fire. I love the way it shines...the way it feels in my breast. But do not mistake my favoritism for failure. I can do most anything with water, too.”

He choked and quivered louder, mouth down onto her collar bone. She reached her free hand up to the back of his neck and patted like she would a lap dog.

“How does it feel? I have always wondered, myself...being frost-bitten from the inside out…” Her smile widened as she glanced. His face had gone blue and purple, his mask slipping. “Shall we find out together?”

Her palm pressed just enough but then…

“Inquisitor!”

Her magic seeped out of her, and her focus went with it. Gaspard nearly collapsed on top of her as she gave up control of his innermost being. A convenient grasp of the rail next to her hand paired with her strength proved a saving grace. It all happened so fast: letting him go, releasing herself from his hold to whirl around and see who it was that had discovered her.

Though, the look was optional. Her ears, to her tragic dismay, had already informed her.

Cassandra stood alone and in the middle of the double-doorway, breast buttons of her coat half-undone; she must have been preparing to change into armor. Her softened brow betrayed her outright, indiscriminate glare. Out of all the people who could have come looking... Ugh. Naturally, it would be her.

The piano key quickened and raised in pitch.

Olivia cleared her throat while her companion did his best to compose himself, hand to his chest. Maybe he swallowed an olive wrong. Maybe it had a sharp piece of jewelry in it. 

“Hello,” she said, adjusting herself. “Yes?”

Cassandra only had eyes for the man beside her, and not the fanciful kind. Though with his senses preoccupied in the opposite direction it could hardly be appreciated. 

“Seeker, what is it?”

Cassandra’s head twitched, and she met her gaze at last. “We-e are waiting on you, Inquisitor.” A crack in the beginning. She uttered her title like a regret. _Oh, no, my love._

The Royal wing must have been opened up. She should have gone. How long had she been out there? It was not supposed to take this long. Yet here she was, making odds even and for what?

“Oh.” She nodded. “I see.”

Surprisingly Gaspard straightened up enough to swing around, shoulders hunched but his breathing recollected. A part of her dreaded a confession or an accusation, something that would test her ally’s...her lover’s...her loyalty in a split second. The way Cassandra was laying into her only with a look told her it would be bad timing for such tests.

The piano in her head was joined by another sound, one which she would come to understand as her heart beginning to break. In a second’s worth of afforded time she imagined running to her. Clasping her hands around her face, pleading for her to listen. Rushing to explain and apologize. Olivia Sinclair could never been made ashamed of anything in her life...or so she thought. 

“I see you must be detained,” Gaspard coughed out, invited by no one to speak but nevertheless accommodating. His voice shattered her delusion. 

So, he would save face. Interesting. She gave a half-assed bow of sorts. Decorum didn’t exactly have a passage about what to do with farewells after almost-assassinations. 

“Yes. Thank you for the conversation, but I must be off.” It was appalling to have to thank him for anything, even if it was disingenuous. 

Even if they were at growing odds, Olivia didn’t need an excuse to rush in Cassandra’s direction in any instance. Unfortunately this time around it also appeared like a wife caught being salacious with her lover, out-of-bounds and now needing to give an explanation once they were behind closed doors.

_Veronica was right._

Her expression towards Cassandra got increasingly more earnest the closer they became, but it was too quick of an exchange to let it sink in. As she passed by her head sunk low. Whereas she could pass it off as conservative determination to everyone else who lacked knowledge of her, deep down the truth was self-reproach. The Seeker would know it, too. Alas, it would likely help little.

Her ears kept track of the commotion in her wake as she advanced down the hallway: Cassandra did not follow her step-for-step, looming where she had discovered her leader in a compromising position. Suddenly there was a brisk hit of clothes and armor: a soft collision similar to what you’d hear if they ran into each other in a walkway. 

It was irresistible. She had to peek. Just once. When she did, it was Cassandra using her arm to shove someone back outside like a guard. Her brow had lost its softness. Her mouth moved, only a few word’s worth, before she turned to leave. Gaspard must have tried to go along where he was not welcome. Again.

It took what little still lived of Olivia’s mangled attachment on reality to pretend she saw nothing and remember what she was there for. All around people stopped and watched, un-diverted for once. It was not until she got to the Vestibule, where the glass of the windows bordering the split stairs cast her reflection just enough for her to see. 

Up the right side of her gown the gold and ivory had turned black. It cascaded down as if paint had befallen her. Naomi's creation was doing as planned, a result which the whispers and condemnations of every passerby confirmed.

Another domino piece.


	88. Halamshiral (Part Three)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With things between The Seeker and Inquisitor fast breaking down, the moment of truth arrives. Will Cassandra's gamble to rectify the night's course before its too late work, or will it only further spur the discord? And what will become of the Empire that plays stage to their derision, with its most controversial descendant the only one who can save it from disaster?

An excerpt from Enchanter Naomi Ambrosia’s diaries of her life during the Inquisition --

“...Maker, though, we all love her so much. I wish she would simply know that. Sometimes when I look into her eyes I see a darkness in their yellow. It is not overwhelming, but it is there. I used to think it was evil, or perhaps even anger.

Now I have come to understand that it is a great and terrible loneliness.

They are saying her eyes went black that night, like an eclipse. I can only believe it was that loneliness, tired and hungry, making her forget her value. I wish I could have been there to help. 

I hope she is safe, wherever she has gone. I also hope that she knows she is still needed...”

\--

Florianne’s gorgeous words were just as suspected: a disguise for something dastardly. How fitting it was for an Imperial affair. The Duchess deserved credit -- miniscule credit, but credit all the same. She did somehow find a way to import a fade rift onto the Palace grounds undetected, got the best of her brother’s mercenary captain before Olivia could ever hope to, and even had pretty ideas about ruling once Corypheus had his way with the world. 

Goodness, all that, and with such ugly taste in gowns and dance choreography.

More dubious battles behind several doors and it was a wonder they had anything to show besides soiled formal undergarments and destroyed decor: a man held hostage in the Empress’s bedchambers proved more valuable than anything Florianne had to offer as a misleading carrot. The mercenary captain was physical proof of what Olivia was able to figure out by virtue of being the right pair of breasts leading the right forces: Gaspard was a deceitful moron, and so was his sister. Celene, at least, kept her messes tidy and bound to her bedposts. But would that be enough?

The rush back to the ballroom was both bloody and nonsensical -- the renovations had restricted several avenues which would have been both faster and less disruptive. Finally, they reached a route with only one tall door between them and the Ballroom’s east side. 

Before she could lead the entrance, however, a grip on her arm yanked her back and aside, while her comrades raced past her.

Out of the way and aside, Olivia grunted as air heaved out of her gut in response to the sudden break in momentum. The sound alarmed everyone else as they slid and skidded to turn back. When they did, it was revealed that the Seeker had taken the liberty of impeding the process.

The second Olivia spun to face her the room darkened, an impossibility framed by the lack of ample candlelight and preserving linens draped over the furnishings. The walls of overbearing windows and their pearly luminescence staged their gambit as more of a thievery in the dark than righteous heroes off to stop a great assassination plot. Nonetheless, it was Cassandra, bloodied and sword still unsheathed, who made the aura of the room become inescapably dire.

It all happened so fast and without cadence, without reckoning.

“What?” the Inquisitor breathed, shirking her arm out of Cassandra’s hold. It wasn’t so much the strength, but the audacity. Everyone behind her stayed still and without complaint...at least, mouthed out loud.

Cassandra did a half-step back, and spat out the corner of her mouth. “What is the plan for our entrance?”

Can she be serious? “The...the plan is to enter in the first place!”

“You know what I mean!” 

Olivia’s posture grew and tightened, the ball of duress growing between her shoulder blades by the moment, and all the while Cassandra’s iced and insufferable staring made her want to extract it from her spine and chip her tooth on it to take the edge off. 

“I…” her teeth wished to grit as she spoke, “Seeker, we do not have the ti--”

“Answer me!”

The ticking of the clock that awaited them in the Vestibule had found its echo in her chest. She turned around, back to the allies who were refreshingly without anger for her, and frowned. 

“Go on ahead, ensure nothing proceeds for sure before I arrive, if you can.”

Dorian blinked. “Are you sure that is wise, Inquisitor? I know we entered without qualms of ruining a good party, but--”

“Dorian.” With one word, Vivienne harnessed the energies back onto the most pressing matter. “We must go. There is obviously important protocol to discuss.” She shared a knowing look with Olivia, who in turn nodded in both solidarity and personal gratitude. 

Bull, who probably knew exactly what was at hand but lacking the nosiness his other two compatriots had for it, swung his axe onto his back and gave a two-fingered salute of sorts. “Let’s go. Careful, Boss.” His eyes bounced to Cassandra’s direction, before the three of them turned tail and pushed on. 

They slid in through the door one-by-one, as if two Mages and a Qunari were capable of discrete and demure appearances. Oh well, if anyone could manage, they could. 

Cassandra did not waste time on privacies. “Are you going to be honest with me now, or must I wait until you have had more wine with your preferred company?”

Facing her a second time the defensive fury of Olivia’s ego surged in the back of her throat. If Cassandra wanted cooperation, this was not the way to do it. But maybe that wasn’t what she had as an endgame. No...when Olivia linked eyes and saw the way she stood before her, nothing about it said ‘compassion.’

“You have the wrong idea of what is going on.” Her jaw stayed tense, though the desire to unleash her temper continued to rise. 

“Do I?” Cassandra at last replaced her sword back to its attachment to her hip, freeing her hands to cross against her chest. “And who’s fault is that?”

“Yours!” 

“How dare you!?”

Olivia’s gaze narrowed. “What must you know? If we are here to save the Empress, and make sure Corypheus does not obtain what he wants, the--”

“Since when does being in the arms of...of...that…” her chest leavened as she searched for words.

“That what?”

“That man! That--”

“That man is the Duke, and he has men swarming this place ready to spring a trap and--”

“A trap the Empress knows full well will transpire tonight, one she has invited in order to fit her plans! Your attempts to ‘intervene’ are both unnecessary and embarrassing!”

Embarassing. _Embarassing?_ Olivia stood back and lifted her chin. Clearly, this was not an argument of tacticians. Not the way they had always been, regardless of topic. 

“Embarassing for whom?” she toyed with now open hostility, “My ally the Seeker, or the Divine’s unfeeling fist?”

Cassandra’s mouth pressed flat and shut, and her glare intensified along with her lover’s. “After all I have done to prove to you those sides are one and the--” 

Olivia dug her heel into the carpet as she cut in. “Or would it be the third and most troublesome, the woman who--”

“Do not!” her hands fell, one lifting a finger up in front of her chest towards the Inquisitor. “Do not say another word.”

There was the answer, though. No finish needed. Whatever Cassandra was after in this scuffle was still unclear, though contrary to how she entered it, Olivia lacked the care to find out the truth. It was all about the boldness, the stinging nerve in her spine for the way Cassandra beheld her without so much as an ounce of patience. One test, one mission, and it all fell away. Not only had Veronica been right, but now...Theia. 

“Fine,” she gave in, and her hand rested on her sheathed dagger blade. “Then what is it you want from me, other than to make sure I return with the utmost injury I can sustain?”

“I want you to be honest.” 

“Now?!”

“The gown. The way it was designed and planned, how it turned black everywhere that he…” a third time, she stumbled. She looked away briefly, but the malice refused to let go. “At Skyhold you asked about Celene, but nothing else. There has been nothing about your plans for this night--”

“What other plans would there be--”

“Do you have your own intentions for this night besides what was originally decided?!”

Olivia’s interrupted inertia cut off into a free fall. Her vision blurred and her mouth shut. If she were to put down her own brain and pick up Cassandra’s, it all connected: the embrace, the mystique, the lack of attachment. Her inability to promise a moment after tonight, the refrain from affectionate rhetoric. The nervousness between them that hummed even when they were being soft with each other.

“You...you honestly think…” she started, but she could not finish. It was now Olivia’s turn to be unable to speak the atrocities she dared imagine. 

Cassandra, meanwhile, quieted but only because she had taken hold of the issue’s bone. And when she did that, Maker help anyone who dared stand in her way of furthering its fracture. 

“You have left me no other choice but to wonder,” she replied, though regret danced in and out of her complexion. 

Olivia’s heart continued to fail its typical sturdiness. All at once, for the first time since they had met at Skyhold, the way Cassandra looked at her said nothing of forgiveness and everything of disbelief. Disdain, even. A nightmare that had crept out of the margins of her mind and stood in the scant chamber light. 

“How...h-how could you?” her voice cracked, deflated from its wrathful volume. 

Cassandra blinked fast and her lip twitched, a tell that she had gotten herself in too deep to a situation only to be found misguided. Only, like the stubborn and wonderful woman she was, she couldn’t be helped: if she was going to have to sink with her actions, she would.

“If it is not the truth, then prove it.”

Olivia guffawed humorlessly. “Oh? And how might I do that?”

The Seeker looked to either side, security within a desolate room, before her gaze went beyond Olivia’s shoulder and to the door. 

“You can continue to spare me the details as you have so smartly done. I do not care how you do it, but if you have no stake in this disgusting Game, you will exclude yourself.”

“You--”

“Enough!” Cassandra’s breathy interruption spoke more of exhaustion than control. A mercy. They looked at each other again, Olivia full of questions and Cassandra done with searching for answers, before the Seeker took her leave. She passed her close, but their shoulders did not touch. As she stridently moved on, she made her last threat. "If you have any desire to prove to me you are capable of being different from them, you will do this. You will do this," she paused and looked back, her throat stiffening as she dared, "or else you will do without me."

“Cassandra!” 

She tried, but it was no use. She left her behind, alone, to deliberate with no time and no resources. No advisors could be conjured to help her weigh the ins and outs of her potential course. The burdening weight of her body was all but consuming, and now mixed with the selfish inclination to throw things and cry. A lover’s tantrum was far from idyllic in this time and place, though perhaps it was greatly Orlesian. 

_Orlesian._

She was Orlesian. She was someone’s daughter. She was something and someone everyone wanted to control but no one wanted to understand. Apparently not even the one person she found who always tried -- or so it seemed. Now, everything was spoiled and awry. Unfortunately she could not see it all for what it was, and what all of this meant. In the moment, in the fast-slipping lack of time she had to juxtapose her emotions, her anger, and her duty, all Olivia could see was her entrenched hunger to prove no one could hold her leash. Never again. 

A deep and thunderous rattling of bones and sinew traveled from her toes up into her eyelids. Something far more momentous than storm magic, or mana, or injustice. If she could not have one person love her, she would do everything she could to ensure they did not underestimate her. 

_She wants me to break from Gaspard. Do what is right. Dammit, she's...she's..._

The piano key sound in her consciousness came back around, and this time grew louder with less restraint. And there was no one, then, to drown it out. 

\--

Truth be told the minute Cassandra shut the door between them, becoming one again with the crowd of nauseating masked faces, she regretted what she did. It would have all been quicksilver if not for the fact that Olivia looked utterly broken. Underneath the clashing nature of their wills they had always had a weakness for one another when wounds were struck. If only she had known.

_I cannot watch this again._ It was her thought when she walked away from the Duke, after the Inquisitor like always. Always following, so that they could continue the mission. Forward and unwavering, even when every instinct said to have caution. There was something about the Inquisitor -- about Olivia -- that somehow nosed its way every time, convincing her and ultimately vindicating her when she came around to the right thing. She had believed that their love would only strengthen that. Love _must_ strengthen that. 

__

__

__One virtue eroded that faith more than all the others. She could not stand by and serve someone and be vigilant yet complicit. Not simply because she'd witnessed them be redeemable. Not anymore. Even if all she could see, hear, and feel when she discovered her out there with him was the horrible way her chest hollowed and throat turned to dry.__

__She kept to the outskirts of the crowds. Nothing had transpired, or so it looked from the anxious mumblings and predictive gossiping that swirled as she made her way to her spot. She’d plant herself on the western side, towards the front, but not as close as Cullen would be. Now, she had reasons to obtain a clear vision of the events._ _

__Nearby, the Ambassador and her now closest subordinate, Trevelyan stood in concerned hyper-vigilance. Every single combating ally had returned except for the Inquisitor by that point, and surely they would not have without her. Usually, she was at the front of the line. As time passed, it even became a reluctant concern for her that she had not emerged. When she did, though, Cassandra almost wished she hadn’t._ _

__On the other side of the second floor, down the opposite aisle, the Inquisitor had taken off her armor and replaced it with her ridiculous gown. The gown that was too much, too unlike her except for the section of blackened fabric that wore like an enormous ink spill. Her hair was put up again like their saga of fighting never happened. The distance was too great for her to ascertain much else. Only her figure marching to meet Cullen’s rush to her, and the scowl she wore._ _

__The two of them spoke quick before Cullen departed, leaving the Inquisitor to her own devices. With them, she took to watching the east aisle, towards the middle where the Duchess had appeared alongside her vile brother. The two nemeses squared up, now aware that the conflict did not end in the courtyard._ _

__Before something could give, however, the Empress called attention to herself. The grandstanding would start._ _

__Cassandra rarely held remorse for failing to pay attention to an odious speech ever in her life. It was never in her nature to appreciate such things. She only wished she had better reason to be distracted than hoping the Inquisitor would do as she asked. Asked? No, that was far from an ask. An ultimatum. A tool she had become incredibly familiar with, though when used against that woman of all people, dulled in its appeal like a sword left out to rust in a yard. Yet, every time she thought to de-escalate herself, the branded memory of that man she had so stupidly believed to be preferable to the current ruler, and his body against hers. Now, if the whole lot of them were not already damned, they were now if she had to be the one to do the honors herself. Especially for him. Shoving him by the collar in the balcony would only be the tip of blade for what she --_ _

__The Duchess walked with purpose past her and the assembled bodies orbiting her, mobilizing. Cassandra cleared her mind, her eyes searching with strangled hope for the Inquisitor on her end. She was standing still where she had come to, her face moving along with the Duchess’s figure. One hand at her side, the other at her back. Not drawing attention to herself, nor doing anything to impede what was set in motion._ _

__Her gut sank at that. What if she was going to do it, and stand by? What if the Empress would die tonight?_ _

__She swallowed hard and fought to not jump into action. To not make the choice that had come to easy to her after all those years, sometimes to her detriment. It was not her intervention to make. And, if she had to do it on behalf of the woman she cared for, what would it truly mean, then?_ _

__Florianne went closer and closer, until she was mere steps away. Much to her dismay, Cassandra prepared for the sound of screams and traumatic chaos. The cacophony of violent ends reaped by violent means. Every time it came to pass she wondered why she ever let herself believe it would be an anomaly in her life. Every time, another invocation of the Maker and her faith that would go sullied. Another moment she would have to do right by her conscience despite her need to know why it was necessary to be tested in this way._ _

__She would hate it, but she would not close her eyes._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Halamshiral into three parts to cover the canon timeline of the event as it pertains to this fic. So, if you are wondering why it's the last part and it ends on a cliffhanger, it is because I am going to be progressing away from the canon-timeline of the ordeal going forward. :) So, stay tuned for what happens on the other side of this fiasco!


	89. Oblivion By Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Veronica, a member of Leliana's Ravens and old friend of the Inquisitor herself, rejoins the fray in time to witness the aftermath of the Ball's climax. Though stressfully timed, this brings her and Theia's past issues to bare, with Olivia's condition the forefront of both their anxieties. A further bombshell provides an opportunity.

An entire wing of the damned place was in a frenzy. Inquisition scouts, fellow ravens going up and down the halls and making all sorts of commotion. Dorian himself, even, marched past her with staff in hand as if the battle hadn’t really ended. It all coalesced like a pulsing, exposed vein in the guest wing of the Palace. Voices, damn, so many voices. The one time she had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Well, truly, that wouldn’t exactly be an exception to the rule. 

She ripped her hood and gloves off as soon as she rounded the corner, where yards away a familiar head of colorless hair bobbed up and down with talking. Bossing, more like it. The door to the room slammed behind her, but she didn’t flinch. 

“Theia!”

Hearing her name, the woman stopped her ranting and nearly snapped her neck to see who was calling for her. “Veronica!”

“What happened?!” She asked as she jogged up, the subordinate scouts flinching as they looked on. 

Theia looked back towards the cordoned off room, and then sighed with exasperation. Her hands waved in circles as she spoke, and she was still wearing her light blue gown for the evening. Damn, she did know how to wear blue. Everything looked par for the course, except when her gaze trailed down to the hemline, which was rimmed in what appeared to be glistening black ink. 

“The whole thing was...it was…”

“Out with it!”

“Lay off, would you? We are just getting things settled, everyone is--”

“What are ‘things’? Where is Olivia?”

The Scouts widened their eyes at the invocation of a name rather than a title. One of them dared to ask who they were referring to. Both looked at them with their own respective styles of disapproval, before attentions returned.

“She intervened in the assassination, and fought the Duchess on the ballroom floor.”

For being so flustered, Theia delivered the news with a rather monotonous tone, like it was the least of their problems. Maybe it was. Maker, Gem was never good about leaving messes as they were originally made. 

“Shit,” she repeated, this time under her breath as she stepped to the side. She rubbed her forehead with the side of her thumb while thoughts and plans tried their best to correlate in her head. So much unhelpful racket. “Is she injured? Why is there yelling?”

Theia restrained herself from open discussion, peering at the Scouts still standing by. “You have my requests. You may go, and make haste, please.” With them gone, she was able to slouch and take a little load off, drawing closer for discretion’s sake. “Ro, it was unlike anything I’ve ever seen or read about in my life. Or in the Circle.”

Veronica shook her head, nonplussed. “What are you talking about?”

“The Duchess, she...” her hands went waving again, and Veronica noticed the grey stains on her palms and wrists, “she had these blades that glowed, and her bow...she, or someone she knew, was practicing some dark works. When Olivia threw her over the bannister she merely disappeared into a plume of smoke and materialized in the center of the room. I’ve only seen Mages perform that kind of…” she shook her head, “I do not even know what to say about it.”

“Fucking Orlesians with their fringe hobbies. You think any of them could embroider like normal people?”

Theia paused. “You mean Fereldens.”

“Fuck off. For the last time, we knit.”

“Ugh,” Theia rubbed her own shoulder as she stared off into space, mournfully contemplative. “It didn’t matter, none of it.”

“What do you mean? Can you just say something, and say it in one swoop, instead of trying to be all romantic?”

Glass shatter sounds came from inside the bedroom. One, then another, and then a third. They both watched the door, but nothing and no one revealed themselves. The violence was followed by foreboding silence.

“Olivia…” Theia carried on, intrepid, “she became something.”

“Fuck, was she posses--”

“Shh!” all at once Theia pulled her off to the side, towards the wall and against it, away from the echoing rotunda of the hall. “Do not say such words aloud. The last thing she needs is spies relaying false information about her condition out into the world.”

The wall molding caused an ache in her lower back, one she pushed away from and winced. With a swift shove she rid herself of Theia’s handholds and let out a growl as she did so. 

“Then tell me!”

Theia did one last look down either end of the hall, which made a tomb look like a party, before delving out the goods. She went paler than usual, which given her already gaunt complexion, raised doubts as to whether any blood coursed through her veins at all or if she was just a wraith working overtime. 

“She threw her down onto the floor, and met her there. The gown rotted to black and burned clean off of her until she had nothing on but blades and her underlayer for her armor. She challenged the Duchess to a duel of blades instead of magic. They clashed so ferociously it was as if we were watching large cats battle in an arena. It was insufferable, half the crowd was terrified and the other was entertained.”

Theia spun until she had her back to the wall alongside her. They both stared ahead into the empty space of the second floor overlook, all windows bordering the connected, square walkways lit up with lit up windows. Whoever was sharing the wing with them had to have been either vacated or prohibited from re-entrance. Candlelight or not, no one was there except for their own. Sister Leliana would have ensured it with her own two hands if need be. 

“Well, what do you expect?” she shrugged it off, or attempted, at least.

“I expect human decency, for one.” Theia went further sour. 

_Ugh, don’t we all. Doesn’t mean we get it._ “...She won, didn’t she? Of course she did, she’s--”

“It’s not her victory that is the issue at hand, anymore. It is the way she did it.”

Veronica shot a look, to which Theia sighed and pressed her lips to one side of her mouth. “She...I think something entropic occurred.”

That word had both a familiarity and a fearfulness to its mention. Years had passed since she last heard it spoken out loud by anyone. That was theory and Circle nonsense.

“Entropic? You mean the discipline of…”

“Yes,” Theia squirmed a little, “Midway, Florianne got the best of her out of a fluke move, a damned stroke of luck, and she sent her blade straight into Olivia’s...into her…” Her voice and face strained, and in that moment it was almost as if the act could be seen reflected in her irises. An image of horrifying connotations that even sent a shiver down Veronica’s otherwise stalwart spine. 

Maker.

Her eyes widened. “So she is injured.”

“No.”

“Then...then how could she still be--” another crashing sound, but not of glass...something bigger, from the other side. Then silence again. “...How could she be up and about like this if she took a blade to...wherever she got it?”

“The stomach. S-she got it in the stomach. People screamed, and she doubled over onto her. It was so real, Maker, it was like…” she looked up and shook her head, seemingly trying to rid her mind of it all like circling insects, “and she just...laughed!”

“Laughed?! That Bitch dared to--”

“No, not her. Gem. While we were all panicking, she started to laugh. The whole place went quiet and she kept getting louder and louder. And then she looked up.”

“...And?”

Veronica could count the number of times Theia showed true, unprepared fear from her. Theia was many things, but she rarely ever allowed weakness of will to show. Yet, as she looked over, dead into her eyes, a chill coursed through the air that owed nothing to the night and its temperance. 

“It wasn't Olivia, Ro.”

Boots sounded off from down the locked down hall. Their necks went like cranes to find out just who it was walking alone and by the sounds of it, achingly deliberate. 

“...Shit,” Theia mumbled out the corner of her mouth, “it’s her.”

Veronica furrowed her brow, but the new figure distracted her from confusion. Or, rather, compounded it. It was the Seeker, strangely un-armored. People wondered if she owned any clothes that didn’t come with complimentary breastplates and pauldrons. Yet, there she was, alone and disarmed, and as she closed in, so did the energy of the place.

They were too close to be irrelevant spectators, and even if they were, the sheer fact of them being Gem’s friends would disqualify any possible discretion. Not that Theia’s temper would help. 

“Seeker,” Theia stepped out into the hall and forward, just in front of the door handles. Good grief, she was annoying. 

“Trevelyan,” Cassandra snapped out of whatever line of thought had enveloped her, and she halted. “I need to see the Inquisitor at once.”

“You really think--”

“Theia.” Veronica pulled away from the wall this time. It was idiotic for her to hope that she could hang back from this one. Rolling up her left sleeve, she joined Theia at her side. “Tone.”

Theia immediately frowned, and one brow rose in dissent. “Not now.”

“Whatever it is you think I have done, you need to save your insurrection,” Cassandra lobbied, edging closer. “I need to--”

Another chorus of commotion from the bedchamber. Low and quaking. _Is she rearranging the blasted furniture, now?_ Once it all went dormant again, the three of them -- all looking like fools from the outside, in all likelihood -- returned to each other.

“I have explicit orders not to let anyone without permission into this room.”

“I have permission.”

“From whom?”

“Permission enough. Please, let me just--”

“Oh, now you come waltzing, as if this is not all your--”

“--Silence!”

Veronica’s yelling was an infamous thing. Especially when it was to be a mediator. It wasn’t often, after all, that she was on the neutral end rather than throwing elbows. No...that had always been Olivia's area of expertise. Theia and the Seeker stopped and gawked in their own ways, full of ego and self-preservation on either end. Having the stage, she folded her arms and took advantage while she could.

“Theia, is she sound?”

Theia’s mouth went agape as if she asked how she looked naked. “Have you not heard all this?!” she gestured towards the wall.

“I didn’t ask that, I asked if she was sound.”

“She is scaring the life out of the Healers, is what she is doing. They insisted she needs sedation.”

“She doesn’t--”

“--she does not need sedation,” Cassandra finished what Veronica began, causing another contentious pause between them. Theia had gone from pale to seething scarlet. 

“Now, Theia, before you go feeling outnumbered,” Veronica placed a hand on her arm, one she apparently had no cares about losing to instant frostbite, “maybe this would be best.”

“Best?!” Theia said like a curse, spit out her mouth as she went back. “Do you have any idea how this woman endangered her?!”

“Do _you,_ Agent?” Cassandra stayed robustly stern as she sent Theia’s malice right back around. Something about it wasn’t quite right. Even still, it wasn’t worth cutting into the sense of things with any more drama. If they could hear Gem break brandy glass from her side, surely if she paid attention she could hear them gobbling like frantic turkeys. 

“Seeker, if anyone can calm her down, I think it is you,” she gave her verdict, much to Theia’s groaning chagrin. 

“You don’t get to decide that!”

“If your authority rests on friendship, Theia, than certainly I own some competitive merit in that regard!” Veronica yelled as she faced her down. “Something tells me you need to be relieved of your post. This is no longer a diplomatic liability, but one of security. You, diplomat,” she shoved her in the shoulder just enough to make her fall back a step, “stand down.”

It was the first time they had choice words since...well, a long time. Mostly out of stalemate. It was funny: she always thought it would be about women, about the Ambassador, if they should go at it. Petty things, like they always did, like dogs over a scrap of meat. Not Gem and her theatrics. Then again...

“Thank you,” Seeker Pentaghast said as she stepped towards the door. It had been noiseless -- the longest stretch since Veronica had showed up. Maybe the woman of the hour had indeed realized just who guarded her doorway. 

Theia’s incensed attitude said it all: she would not forgive this easily or in the near future. Bitterly, a part of Veronica felt for her. All she could do was stare at the door. The ugly, gaudy, oversized door, as the stillness changed in its effect. Theia, recoiling and spouting inaudible fury, paced like she could start a fire with the sheer friction of her feet. 

“I was right about her. I was right all along!”

Veronica turned, eyes rolling. Now of all times, she started ranting about superior opinions. Of course. 

“What on Earth are you talking about, Theia?”

“Olivia told me when we were carrying her here. The Seeker thought she was leading a rouse the entire time. That is why everything went wrong.”

 _Oh, sure, that is how it went._ What an odd feat, if Olivia was so maddened by her tousle with the Duchess-Whoever, that she would spend her rescue bitching about how her lover nagged her about something. Theia was never good about telling an impartial story. Damn it all, though. So now it had all come full circle. The Seeker was no fool, alas she may have been misled by a foolish heart. Theia was ready to spit nails over it, meaning she likely lacked the full context. Interesting. 

“I told Gem she would not be able to understand. And now here we are!”

“Wait a damned minute,” Veronica whirled around and fixated on her, and Theia stood still, “what did you say to her?”

“I said--” Theia started, but rolled her lips shut as she bit back her volume. “I...warned Olivia that Cassan--”

“The Seeker.”

She glared at her correction. “That...the Seeker, would not be able to understand why she does what she does, and who she is. Now look at what has happened, a lover’s ultimatum almost sent the Empire into a spiral, almost killed her.”

Veronica scuffed her heel against the marble, and blew threw her nose. “A ‘lover’s ultimatum’ likely saved our friend from herself tonight. And what makes you think you of all people have any right to counsel on affairs of the heart?!”

Theia swallowed whatever bullshit she was about to sound off, preferring to pout. All the same, Veronica no longer needed a full recapitulation of the evening. She knew enough, whether it was in the remorse the Seeker did her best to conceal as confidence, or Theia’s rabid lack of respect, to confirm her fears. Gem had gone off the path she should have stayed on, saved only by the mercy of the smoke her fires had distended to those around her who cared for her. 

“Veronica, what happened with us has nothing to do with Olivia now--”

“It has everything to do with Olivia! Both then and now.” They became parallel with each other in the hall, like duelists would after eight or ten paces and a prayer. “She hates me for always saying the hard stuff, but I’d rather her despise me for honesty than be loved for pandering, which you do. You always have.”

“How dare you insist that I--”

“How dare I?!” her voice lifted again, as she pointed fingers to her own chest. “Theia, you know her! You know how she covets your opinion! You telling her the woman she loves will forever be disloyal could have done more harm than anything they could get into by themselves. Now, Seeker Pentaghast might as well be arguing with you along with Olivia, and we both know how impossible she is in a fight alone!”

While their positions could not have been more opposed, the unignorable truth in Veronica’s statement hushed them both to reluctant congruence. Their reprieve made room for the noises coming from the room to lift and spread out, reaching their ears. Contrary to their spat, it sounded as though the Seeker and Olivia were doing anything but screaming. That could have been a good sign, or a very, very bad one.

“You cannot deny the fraught nature of it,” Theia called attention back with one somber line, and then another. “Like it or not, it is to the detriment of Olivia’s wellbeing should the Seeker decide loving a Mage must become killing one.”

“Who said anything of killing?” 

“You know--”

“No! You shut your mouth.” She waved her hand, and the torches mounted on either side of the doors ignited. Someone had neglected to do basic housekeeping here, evidently. It was enough with the darkness, enough with the forsaken brooding. “Theia, I love you,” she continued on with a newly-illuminated face and spirit, “I will always love you, but you are a fool. You think you’ve protected her all these years but you merely turned into one of her greatest perpetrators. I am no one’s savior but I’ll be damned if you finish the job that all those men started. Go make use of yourself...or better yet, go tuck yourself in for the night. You’ve done enough.”

“Veronica, I--”

“Go!”

Unlike their current culture surrounding her, there was no charade to Veronica’s choice. Her palms opened at hip-level, one of the trademark stances of a Mage ready to make good on a harsh promise. Most everyone knew better than to egg on Theia of all Mages for a scrap, but not her. Never her. 

Theia’s mouth stayed open for only a breath or two more, before a flat frown and defeated softening of her eyes ended the battle. 

“Fine. Have it your way. As if you were ever good at making things better.” She struck with a violence only the best of friends could inflict before she left. Grim and definitive, because she knew where to hit. 

Nevertheless, Veronica had armor she lacked in prior melees between them: she was now the guardian. She, who took her place by the door by sliding her ass down the wall and onto the floor, stuck her new claim. As she hugged her knees and took inventory of the rubble of it all, her head rested back against the painted wall. She could finally breathe. 

“Agent!”

She perked up at once to see a fellow Raven running down the way. The break was thus short-lived. A blink, and the person was in front of her, passing down a rolled up piece of parchment. 

“What is the matter?”

“Looks like Madame de Fer’s contacts got word after all, and it is nothing good.”

Veronica tilted her head as she pressed the paper open between her thumbs. One inscripted line.

Family has sent word. Her Mother is dead. Cousin is alive and in the Capitol, wants to see her at once.

As if that weren’t enough to make a pulse race, the door swung open with a vengeance, so much so Veronica lurched up onto her feet. The Seeker had exited, slamming the door and stomping back  
*down from whence she came; the fleeting sight of her passing profile exposed a tucked chin and wrinkled nose. _Oh, shit._ It could not have been more than ten minutes she had lasted in there. Whatever consensus was reached, if any at all, she clearly was not pleased about it.

“Fuck,” the fellow Agent said in a whisper, too scared to have it be picked up by the Nevarran force of nature making her way out of the wing as if her life and rage depended on it. 

“Hush,” Veronica said out of good measure, pressing the paper in her hand. “Now is not the time. Does Leliana know?”

“Of course she does.”

“Tell her I will break the news myself, as soon as she has calmed.” Gears ground in her mind, ones of desperation. But out of desperation often came the utmost cleverness. “I have a feeling this might be exactly what is needed.”

“What do you mean?” the Agent, who’s alias was Onyx, replied with slight horror. She must have read the message.

“It means…” Veronica sighed, rolling the paper back up and handing it off. “It means we have to get her out of Halamshiral as soon as possible. Tonight.”

“I don’t think everyone could mobilize that quickly, people are still attending to the mess in the ballroom.”

“I didn’t say the Inquisition,” Veronica shook her head, “I said her. Messes be damned. Now hurry.”

The Agent gave her one more look of judgmental opinion, but it was uninvited. She left to do as she was advised, and that was all that mattered. Alone once more Veronica’s attention went back to the door which she was left to keep intact. In the thick of it, it was rather easy to think it was all logistical ends to tie up. But the truth of it was, on the other side was a woman who was probably falling apart. Falling apart with no one she trusted there to witness her. 

As she neared the door there was a noise. Muffled, but there. Her ear closed in on the door’s carved facade, until a quivering crescendo made her freeze in place.

Her palm pressed against it when she found it was a noise she all-too-often heard through the thinly-plastered Circle walls: a deep, grieving voice, sobbing into fabric. 

_Oh, Gem,_ she worried. _What have you done?_


	90. Smoke Bearer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisitor regains consciousness after her episode in the Ballroom, surrounded by some of her closest allies. Their presence does little to resolve the panic and unexpected turmoil her instinctive gambit has caused. When Cassandra shows herself at long last it is not the compromise nor forgiveness their relationship has known thus far, and things long veering on the edge begin to irrevocably shatter.

When she came to, the Ballroom was gone. In its stead was a standard guest wing suite, dimly-lit with bodies anywhere and everywhere she could crane her neck to look. They had made her horizontal, on the bed like some ailing woman who caught the vapors. She was no ailing, frail woman. She was no victim. 

She was, however, a murderer. 

That was the only fact she was sure of -- and that alone spurred her pulse higher than anything. Her memory was shot and long-gone. Everything from the point of her running to intercept the Duchess with her dagger, to now, was a myriad of colors and shapes but little else. Reds and purples, some blue...and then all black. The void, as any mortal could come to see it before their time, may have passed her by. 

She lurched up out of bed, the remnants of her clothes no longer recognizable as belonging to a formal gown fit for an Imperial gathering. It was all black and in tatters that barely covered her around her hips, torso, and chest, the straps around her thighs for her blades hanging on by their buckles. Voices clamored. Heads shook and nodded. Blurred vision could not identify a single one. 

Rolling her lips, she tasted coarse, sour ash. It was then Leliana’s strident tone broke in, though not with the typical comforting confidence: 

“Inquisitor…”

Olivia kept blinking, but nothing would clear. Her hands went to her face, wiping away the grading debris that caked her complexion. Ultimately her own touch only added warm, slightly sticky liquid to the mess.

“No, no, no,” a second woman corrected as she rushed towards her, and Olivia flinched back. That made them both halt. 

“Inquisitor,” Josephine’s tenor added, “hold still, please.”

The command was gentle. If only everything made sense. Her knees quivering said otherwise. 

“W-w-w--”

“Shh.” The figure who advanced towards her sat off the edge and reached for her. The hissing sound she made didn’t help. Despite this, Olivia allowed her to clasp hold of her wrists and pulled her palms away from her head and shoulders. She was getting a good look at her. 

She opened her eyes and the clarity nearly stunned her. Sudden, and sobering, Theia’s were looking back at her in such a widened and periled way, a sight she would never forget. 

“T-t--”

“Shh,” she said again, leaning away to grab a cloth on the nearest side table. “Do not worry.”

“Theia,” she fought to say, immediately followed by a cough. A horrendous one that doubled her over onto her lap into her friend’s embrace. The cloth was a nice thought, but she was too slow on the draw as blood splattered out from Olivia’s mouth onto the expensive bedspread. 

“Maker, help us,” someone whispered from several feet away. The sharpness indicated Josephine’s accent.

“I will go and ensure nothing has or will follow us from the Ballroom.”

“Leliana, wait!”

“Josie, stay here. Do not let anyone in to see her.”

“But!”

The argument was short-lived. A door hinged open and shut off in the distance. All the while, Theia’s protective hold, and the sensation of the beautiful periwinkle fabric of her shoulder sleeve, almost overwhelmed her senses. The smell of vanilla spice embedded in it, and the way it itched the top of her cheek as she struggled to remember breathing. Theia’s hand rubbing up and down her back.

“This is…” Josephine’s voice waned. She was likely pacing. 

“We need a healer,” Theia said, twisting around where she could at her superior. 

“They have sent for one of ours. It is likely the Palace is locked down, any entrance will be...difficult.”

“Can’t they have one strung in from one of the windows?” 

“The last thing we need is more reason for the Inquisitor to be suspected of--”

Olivia’s hearing went out along with her consciousness. Brief, only enough to cut out the rest of the Ambassador’s reasoning. It was likely for the better: what could she do? Hop up, pretend she was none the worse for wear, and get right back to the mission? Was there any mission left to be salvaged in the first place?

Without explanation, she already knew the answer. It was in the way Theia looked at her, the way Josephine sounded the most unsettled she had ever been since the direct aftermath of the Conclave. 

“Theia.” It was the only word she could have faith in herself to say, hunched over like a useless sack of vegetables against the original savior of all her misdeeds. 

For a third time, but sweeter, Theia hushed her. 

\--

An hour passed, or so she was told after, before coherency returned. An hour that both slipped out of their hands, and drug on like a winter storm. Over time she was able to hold herself up, take sips of liquids she was promised were only water and nothing else, and placed in a silken night dress once she was wiped down. Something about her evidently advised against plunging her in bathwater. 

Her physical shape was not the matter of concern, though. Her mind, and her personality, ebbed in an out of a restless vitriol. One moment she would be quiet and receptive to her friend’s cajoling, the next she would be ready to spit in a person’s eye and rail against their attention. With the last ounce of control she had, she did her best to roll her mouth and eyes shut every time the badness came sweeping into her lungs again. That was all she could describe it as: the badness. The bitterness. The frightening grip of something desperately seeking pain. 

The Healers experienced the brunt of the swings. Utensils thrown, glasses broken. Names cursed. For all her tenure she had maintained a gracious kindness with people who served her and her well-being. The last straw was a throne bottle that nearly landed in a young man’s face, breaking into a million little pieces against the bookshelf wall behind him. 

“That is it, Ambassador,” the young man’s superior said as he fastened a bottleneck shut. The sound made her cringe. “Either we take measures to sedate her, or we cannot properly examine her. She is still a threat to everyone’s safety as long as she remains this way and unsecured.”

“We will not bind her,” Theia insisted as she re-entered the fight, commanding despite her inferiority to most everyone in the room. 

Olivia swallowed dry and reopened her eyes, the latest tantrum subsiding into apologetic shame. There was an ache in her abdomen, and in both her arms. Her hip also gripped with pain when she shifted her weight. She needed to be seen. She needed medicine. Still, the way the bearded man and his assistant postured themselves...it was unbearable. For no good reason she hated him, hated them both. She had seen them before at Skyhold, even waved hello and exchanged happy greetings before. 

“Go,” she spat, deciding for both Theia and Josephine. “I do not need sedation.”

“Olivia,” Theia said sorrily as she turned around to face her, “we must make sure you are not in danger of --”

“I said go,” she repeated in an intimidating monotone, one not completely her own. “If they cannot do the task, I see no reason for them to remain here in obvious discomfort.”

Josephine’s eyes saddened along with her shoulders. Leliana had not returned once since she sent herself off to secure things. Only one of the invited inner circle -- Dorian -- had managed to gain entrance. His visit was short-lived and a blur for Olivia, who was still balancing in and out of awakeness. He stood off in some dark corner with Theia before he left. He had approached the bed to say something, but Maker, she couldn’t recall what. 

At least he took the time to show up in the first place; she could not say the same for certain others. 

“Olivia, I know it is...considerable, but, you must understand--”

“I understand, Theia,” she cut her off with iciness that quickly eroded into fatigue as she rubbed the side of her face. “But I do not need to be dulled by the senses. I am already well enough, and that seems to be the problem. I must ask you and Josephine leave me be.”

“L-leave you be?!” Theia rubbed her hands in front of her waist like a worried Mother would for a feverish child. “B-but, Olivia, you cannot stand, you cannot even...you…”

“I know what I cannot do,” she replied, staring off in a near-blank expression. One which did not seem to assuage Theia’s fears in the least bit. “It might serve me well to be kept to one state. Please, just leave me be. For a little while.”

“A...a little while?”

“Inquisitor…” Josephine muttered, coming to the foot of the grand bed. She had said that title one too many times that evening -- too many times with sadness, that it. The anguish in her otherwise demure attitude made all her beauty become tragic. 

“I am fine,” Olivia’s eyes glazed, but she did her best to grin onto one side of her mouth as her eyes locked with Josephine’s. “For just a while. I promise, I will call if I need help.”

“We cannot…” Theia whipped around to look at the Ambassador, but she was only met with sympathy for the Inquisitor rather than her own cause. Josephine invited her to stand with a gentle wave of her hand, lips pursing. “No,” Theia continued, digging her heels in.

“Theia, please.” Olivia’s chest caved a bit, and she forced herself to pause. 

“Olivia, you--”

“If you do not go, I will not be able to center myself,” her eyes blinked open, clearness restored, “and I will only be worse. Please.”

Theia was never one to abandon a friend in a fight. Even still, it was not amongst bodies or blades, and certainly wasn’t one she could participate in as little more than a witness. Somehow, Olivia had seemed to find a useful combination of elements for such a task: Josephine’s presence, a slight touch of her hand, and a promise that she would scream if need be.

Still, Theia took one last look at her before following the Ambassador out the door. She was beyond help. She would languish, wherever she would post herself, until she could be of use. 

Such things were not Olivia’s problem. Though, isolated and fending off a troublesome nature, she wished they were. 

\--

She laid still, palms up and at her sides. The green core of her anchor was still pulsating, still alive somehow. It bothered her that the rest of her abilities seemed nearly-vanished from her body, all the while whatever hosted itself in her skin seemed perfectly safe. Her mana was silent, the beat of power in the back of her throat nonexistent. Whatever she had done she had been sucked nearly dry of her worth as a Mage.

Her head laid back against the pile of pillows at her back she did her best to check in with the catalogue of her brain. 

_Powerlessness and exhaustion. I could have...I could have done one of three things. I could have...wait...no, four things...shit…_

Mages expending their magic in this way only had so many routes of doing so. They could either invest everything into one bombastic enchantment, be robbed of it by an external dominating force, or something else. Something else she could not for the life of her recall from her education. Naomi would know. She would know, and crack open a book, and figure it out. 

_Naomi should be here. I am a fool._

She could do other things. She could try to meditate, and hopefully her memories of the last couple of hours would come back together. Or she could try and frustrate herself only more. Her secondary option was to try to revive and harness her magic.

The third and unspeakable option was wonder where a certain woman was. And that, above all, was out of the question. 

Option number two proved the most attractive, mostly because it gave her an excuse to take her temper out on moving things. Glasses were small and in great supply around her -- the Healers had removed themselves but not their equipment. With furrowed brow and sweat she could lift one by one each and every flask they hauled in their robe sleeves. The strenuous sensation of it took her breath away to the point where all she could think to do was send them flying to the wall.

More breaking glass, more broken things. More broken ideas of what could have been. 

After every round of lifting and throwing -- five total, before she grew too disgusted with her wastefulness to continue -- was like a direct shot to her own heart. She could not settle for this, for this piecemeal bullshit. She had to be herself, she had to be just as she had been. If she was, that meant she could come back from whatever it is she had done and defend herself. She was not a pound of meat to be picked off.

And so, she moved on to bigger targets of her talents: the nearest desk, first. Its heaviness was so beyond her that it caused shard pain to strike from the top of her backbone down to her knees. She kept pushing, though. The desk creaked and shoved unevenly across the floor, one side and then the other. Sloppy and without control. 

A sharp gasp left her as she gave in. The vase on the tabletop fell over and broke in two, half of it rolling off onto the ground where it only turned into more fragments by the sound of it. 

_Fuck all this furniture and the fucking useless junk that gets piled on top of it._ The more injured and pressed she became, the more she sounded like Veronica or Roslyn in her thoughts. Funny. 

Her gambit failed. Her magic was little more than the remnants of steam out an empty tea pot. Her attention, starving for distraction from the bleakness of her state, turned to the humming of argumentative voices on the other side of the door. Try as she might, she lacked the acuity to discern just who or what the topic of dispute was, though given everything, she could give an honest guess. She had to pray it was not one of the Imperial court’s officials, or the guards, seeking her arrest. She was in no condition to entertain that kind of thing. 

The knob fidgeted, though only one of the two matching doors opened. No dramatic entrance of palace guards. No, it was a dressed down Nevarran, slipping in like an old friend with a side-step and shut of the door. 

_Fuck, why couldn’t it have been guards…_

She was a sitting duck. Cassandra approached, the lower half-level of the suite her own processional space to the two or three stairs between them. Every Orlesian bedroom felt the same, with its split-level nonsense and oblong floors. Poor staging for a fight. 

Her armor and regalia were both gone. She was wearing a coat, dark-colored, matching her pants. The clicking sound with her footfalls indicated boot heels. It was only when she climbed the stairs that Olivia could properly see her face, and the agony that betrayed her quiet. The woman could compel her to pour every single gallon of compassion she had in her out into the open for her to sip. Yet, as she came to stand at the base of the bed, tall yet empty-looking, Olivia had nothing left to saturate their world with anymore. 

“Hello.” 

Cassandra’s eyes went wider, the fireplace to the side of the room making them dance with moroseness. Olivia pined to know their colors as she always had, but, her condition further scorned her. 

“Inquisitor.” She bowed her head. Only once. 

Olivia cleared her throat and did her best to angle her shoulders back against her pillows. “Are you happy?”

Cassandra’s chin lifted sharply, her stare definite. “What...makes you think any of this pleases me?”

Lifting small glass vials? Infuriating. Moving furniture? Wretched. Arguing with Cassandra? Apparently a suffering worth the trouble. 

“I only wished to know,” her voice cracked, “after all, I did as you commanded.”

As Cassandra stared her down, the worst possible movement of energy began to return within Olivia’s bones. The tantrums, the mood she had been swinging in and out of, was growing irritable. Like flares tingling every nerve of every limb until it would eventually cause her to snap. She closed her eyes and took a breath.

“Inquisitor, I--”

“Why are you here, Cassandra?” Olivia’s eyes shot open as the current of burning continued. It was not going to be one she could wish away. 

“I…” Cassandra watched her, but seemed to believe it was all the struggle of injury, the aftermath of a battle, that made her this way. She paused and tensed her jaw. “I am sorry that I did not stay here, with you. Believe me when I say I was…”

“Why were you not here, then, if you are so sorry?”

She steeled further as her chin held itself high. “I feared that...that you would not want me to be.”

“I cannot imagine why. You have been…” her throat caught, and she coughed under her breath. Cassandra took a half-step forward, but was held off once Olivia held her fingers up toward her. “I would not…” she breathed, “what, are you frightened of me n--”

“Olivia, please, do not play--”

“Do not call me that!”

Cassandra’s advance was curtailed, and she stood back. The uptick in Olivia’s tone, like the one she had with sending Theia away, was not purely her own. It was something hybridized. Unlike Theia or Josephine, somehow Cassandra heard it, too. Underneath the anger Olivia wished to ask her about it, to ask her for help. But no. 

“So. Are you happy?”

Cassandra’s face further contorted with somberness. “I am far from it.”

“...Well.”

“I did not think my request would lead to this. You must trust me enough to believe that.”

“Surely.” She inhaled, blinking with its pace before her eyes landed once again on Cassandra’s dewy image. “Can we take anything for granted now, Cassandra?”

“I…”

“You think--”

“No. You will let me say this, if nothing else.” Once again she came close, hands falling to her sides. “I did what I did, not for my own selfish needs, or because of my politics. I did it because I wished to protect you from what you refused to see. I admit that it was the result of mistakes, and I do not deny that there were many…”

She was assured at the beginning, but the part about mistakes made her hesitate. Her voice got breathier at that point. She was sincere.

“There were mistakes.” Olivia did her best to stay grounded in the moment, even with the war inside her body. “I just never thought you would trust your opinion of...of me...before me at all.”

“If anything, Oli--Inquisitor, it was…” a second time, a good start led to a half-spoken truth. She looked away, towards the mantle, while Olivia got lost in her form to save face. Her attention was almost entirely inward. _I have to spare her of this, she does not deserve it…_

“T-tell me...Cassandra…” she blinked a few times, “is the Empress alive?”

Cassandra refocused on her quickly, and swallowed stiff. Not immediately answering the simple question. “Yes, she is.”

“...And safe?”

“Yes.”

“And…” her voice dried further, “and what of…”

“The Duchess is dead. The Duke tried to argue with the Empress after we removed you. I don’t know what came of it. All I know is there is no sign of Ambassador Briala or the elves. That, and…”

Olivia sighed. “What else?”

Cassandra looked down for a moment, towards Olivia’s lap where her hands rested, before returning her eyes to hers. “There are several dead. Most were the Duchess’s people, but some…Maker, don’t you remember?”

That was the million-sovereign question. One she was not ready to answer, or admit to ignorance. 

“I remember enough.”

Cassandra eyed her, but then turned to the side to groan in frustration. “They should not have tried to attack you. Idiots, thinking they could have their own moment of fame, when you...you were…!”

“Cassandra, enough.”

“But, don’t you…” she came around to watch her again, “you looked like nothing I have ever seen. Nothing like who you are in combat. What did you do? What is the truth of it all?”

If her wits and health were any better, Olivia probably could have seen well enough what she looked like in the reflection of Cassandra’s eyes and the disconcerted look on her face. As it stood, all she could really do was be scared by the way she spoke. The unprepared manner of it. No one wished to hear that kind of thing from someone like the Seeker, who had seen years worth of carnage and corners of the world.

No one wished to hear that from the woman they loved. 

Loved. Her chest tightened. The fight was being lost; in a moment or two she would turn into a bitter woman ready to strike. 

“You need to leave, Cassandra.” Olivia looked away, down toward her thighs dressed in purple, of all colors. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. “I have nothing to say right now.”

“But...will you be alright?”

“I do not know. Perhaps you should have asked earlier, before you left me all by myself with nothing but a threat and broken pride.”

“Inquisitor--”

“You listen to me, now,” her eyes narrowed. “You had no idea what I was to do when we returned to the Ballroom, and yet you still talked down to me like all I had come here to do was carve out my own selfish plan. What you did, what you did to me,” her throat grew thick with emotion, and the shift in her consciousness was taking advantage. “You robbed me. You cheapened my position, and let your insecurity masquerade as integrity. A true Hero of Orlais, no?”

Cassandra broke before her, not in the way just any person would. In the way only she would: her chest rose and fell with greater difference, sucking on her teeth while she held back the fallout. It was like staring into the sun while it collapsed into its own merciless brightness. 

“I have always done my best to honor your reliance on me, Inquisitor. It was…” she struggled, “never my intention to do as you have accused.”

“Is this the way you honor your leaders, Cassandra?”

“If you are referring to my imperfect but...but sincere, loyalty to you, then...” She was sounding more desperate. Or maybe she always sounded like that. Just braver, most of the time. 

Olivia’s heart hollowed. Underneath the ripples of sheets, her fingers clenched. “Will you ever forgive yourself, Cassandra?” her name became a pointed needle to stab every stitch of her anger into the seam. “Will you sleep at night knowing you stood rank-and-file with genocide but couldn’t swallow watching an imperfect woman try her best to be as powerful as everyone believed her to be? For nothing else but to salvage the world at the expense of a lesser man’s vanity? Or will carry this like all the torches you have amassed until you are so burdened by the gravity of it all you simply disappear into the Earth, as helpless as you fear?”

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. The piano played again, an audience of only one, in Olivia’s head. Nearly all-consuming in volume until the one great thing her will dared to instigate came to pass. 

All the vivacity in Cassandra’s air fell apart. She had turned her chin down as Olivia spoke her grand indictment, but when she lifted her gaze back up, it was with an expression most indignant. The kind one saw on the other side of a swinging blade. And with it, her solemn vow provided the severance: 

“No one in this world will ever know a regret as deep and inescapable as mine, Inquisitor. That, I swear to you.” She meant it. Olivia calcified only more in the bottomless fall. Cassandra’s voice was so disenchanted, so low, and so clear. 

Her knuckles had begun to darken into shadows, spreading like smoke trapped in between her skin and the air. She tucked them further underneath the sheets.

“Go,” she half-growled, but Cassandra needed no extra encouragement. She was already by the doors. She slammed them shut in her wake in such a way that the lining shelves of books trembled. Or, so she thought. Peering down at her useless limbs, Olivia realized the only body in the room doing any trembling was her own. 

Her cheeks became hot. Throat scratching and burning. Wrists shaking. She uncovered her hands and flexed them in the air like claws as she fought the smoke. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. And she was what every lonesome and singular heroine feared most: scared, and with no one to save her. There was nothing left but to weep and hope she had enough time to do so before visitors would come calling for kindness or cruelty. 

Maybe it would be Theia, nagging and haughty, ready to avenge her. Or, Dorian could reappear with something cleverly contrived. Who knows, Vivienne could slip in and start reading alchemical equations, slapping her on the wrist for making a most unbecoming scene when she could have had eons more artistic vision. 

When they did they would probably find her only a shroud of bones and hair, lips and fingernails, for that was what it all felt like: a great dissolving from which she would never recover but somehow belonged. 

\--

None of these people would be the first. Instead, it would be a sporting brunette, looking like she was about to walk the plank off a ship. 

Veronica, jacket unbuttoned and under-eyes wrought with sleepless purple, was nevertheless a woman on a mission. 

“Olivia,” she said as she hopped from the bottom of the stairs onto the top, forgoing all graceful steps. “Olivia, come on.” Her invitation was matched by forceful hands on a Olivia’s shoulders. 

What followed was an irretrievable blur, doused in bad dreams and tidings better left forgotten. That is, until the daylight inevitably came, and she was once again on the run for her life. 

\--

A note, left in handwriting unlike the Inquisitor's, stuck between a harvest knife and its leather sheath left behind in a guest room of the Winter Palace:

The Ravens rendezvous with the Fox in three night's time. Docks. Dove is safe. Keep knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have announced this on my tumblr, but seeing as how my audiences might differ (I know some people access my fics here but do not follow me on tumblr, for example), I just wanted to share that after this chapter I am going on writing hiatus effective immediately until mid-August. I am moving for grad school in the next few weeks and need all the time and spoons I can manage for it. Thank you so much to everyone subscribed, bookmarked, and commenting for this story of mine -- it humbles my heart more than you know. I cannot wait to continue it once my life is more settled and I have more energy to devote to it. Love and light to all!


	91. Chains Bending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeker Pentaghast reels from an irrevocable point between her and the Inquisitor, only to have her emotions upended by an unexpected change of plans. The Inquisition's immediate trajectory following the disaster at Halamshiral remains unclear and fragile. Meanwhile, out at sea, the Inquisitor and her less-than-chummy traveling company do their best to make it to their destination without crossing hairs.

There was no point hoping that the situation would go any better than it did. But if that was the case, why did it still sting like she had cause to regret? To hope, as if the Inquisitor was any different from the person she always was? What would ever cause a person to believe such fantasies? That was the principle, and perhaps most lethal, miscalculation Cassandra made that night. 

When she stormed out like a brash and burned lover for a corner of the palace -- somewhere, anywhere -- that would feel far enough from her, she quickly found it, too, was a futile endeavor. The place was swarming with Orlesian guards. The protocol was disorganized at best, frantically useless at worst. Some went to offer security to the nobles who were chirping and stomping like chickens. Others, to tend to the Empress. Mixed in were Inquisition troops, weaving in and out of hallway traffic and doing their best to dissuade where their leader had provoked. 

Cassandra managed to hull herself away in a section of the guest wing, close to the servant’s quarters. Close, but not too close. A small room better suited for a child or elderly visitor in need of condensed space, though it still afforded and elongated balcony with frilly curtains and upholstered furniture that would break if any person well-fed were to have a seat. Holdings and decorations she had always been ironically acclimated to. 

Her hands went in and out of fists as she came to the view before her: a desolate image for a place that had beheld such a horrible turn of events. The night wouldn’t be dark for much longer. The dawn was approaching. A promise of relief, usually, but to her -- and as she suspected, most everyone else -- it was a dreaded precipice. It would only be a matter of time before the chaos would settle just enough for everyone to turn their noses and wonder where the Inquisitor had gone. If she had survived. If she was coming back for more.

_Blast her. Let her solve it herself, then, if she is so prudent._

Her teeth ground and her blood boiled nearly to the point of breaking a sweat. There were so many ways to curse a person. Some she used as readily as her weapons, others she shied from for the sake of honor. What was a warrior without their virtues, after all? But with Olivia -- sweet Andraste, she couldn’t let go of her name -- she had come face-to-face with the answer in her own reflection off the clouded marble. Everything had spun so far out of control and she had stood by with a finger ready to perpetuate the spinning. 

As she walked back and forth, rounding from end to end of the boxed-in balcony, it was all clear. The dire eleventh hour where the leader she, herself promoted and vested in. The Mage who gave her no cause to feel good about her confidence in her. From the beginning she had warned and chided, and what had been done with it? Now, they had only themselves to blame. 

Wrong. Ultimately, Cassandra only had herself to blame. She, alone, pushed where she should have stood back. Her misfalls hadn’t failed to follow her even into this.

_But what can we do? We need her. We need the Inquisition to survive this, or Corypheus--_

A knock came from the door, gentle and patient. What, had this suddenly become her chambers? Was someone expecting to find someone here? Cassandra froze and looked to all corners of the room. Nothing of consequence, no belongings, no luggage. No reason for visitors. She stalled while she contemplated, then, who could have followed her. Who would want to, at this point. 

Thump, thump, thump. Another round. Insistent. 

With one hand on the back of her belt where a sheathed dagger lay prepared she drew near. What was the worst that could happen? A battle between her and some nimble assassin? Good, she’d have something to take out her anger. A hesitant official? Good, she’d...well, she’d probably be ill-advised to express herself then. The last thing she needed was Leliana’s ire to compound the Inquisitor’s.

By the time she reached for the handle, it opened on its own. Maker, she forgot to lock?

“Ugh, thank--” 

“Stop!” Cassandra cut off the hushed tone with a less-than-hushed callout, grip cinching her weapon. “Come no further. Identify yourself, now!”

A shoulder slid in followed by a neck and face, dressed in dark clothes but no armor. There should be armor, though; Cassandra recognized the stitch work. They decorated the appeasing and defenseless freckled face of one of the Inquisitor’s friends. Not the pale Trevelyan or brooding brunette who taught her a lesson, though. The redheaded one who swung a sword like she was jubilantly chopping down trees. There were worse personalities to have. 

“It’s me!” she hissed in a scared whisper, palm up in surrender. 

“You think I know who you are?” Cassandra spat back, her blade fully sheathed once more as she stood back. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

The woman side-stepped her way in and shut the door quickly. On her toes, she tread the few feet separating them until Cassandra could almost count the spots on her face.

“Uh,” she coughed, and then bowed her head in a rush, “uh, well.”

“Well.” Cassandra mocked as she backed away. “Let me guess, someone is looking for me. Someone with hair that looks rather like yours.”

“Leli--the Spymaster? Goodness, no,” she shook her head vehemently. “I was sent by Ver--”

Her conclusion jumped from one to another. “Tell the Inquisitor, then, that if she wishes to address me she can do so directly. I will not be taunted or treated like one of her...her…” the need to insult was there, but the words weren’t. The Inquisitor was always better at follow-through with those sort of statements. Cassandra had the recovering remnants of her ego to prove such. 

The woman blinked a couple times, as if she were seeing a mirage in the desert somewhere, before correcting her superior. “No, no, you have it wrong. I wasn’t sent by the Inquisitor’s...by Olivia’s word. Just by Veronica.”

Cassandra stopped, looking back at her sharply. “And?”

“She...well.” She came even closer and extended her hand. In was paper, rolled crassly around an oblong object. Cassandra took it at once but did not uncover it immediately. Something about the way it felt between her hands, her thumb and forefinger on the uneven ridges of a handle and then metal...she could have bet her life’s meager earnings on what it was. 

With pursed lips and a sour heart her eyes found the gauche portraits on the wall, and stayed there. “What is the meaning of this, then?”

“The note explains little. It was written for Scouts to see, but they thought since it came with the knife, it would need to go to you as well.”

“And who made that infer--” she realized her own answer, regretfully, before she could finish her question. Rotating the thing around between both sets of fingers, she could just hear Leliana speculating. Speculating, speculating, and more...ugh, forget it. 

_Wait...it came with a note...for what reason…?_

“Why was this written?” she whirled around to face her directly, holding it out in her right palm. Eyes widened and pulse jumped like in the moments of free-falling before you wake up from a dream. 

The woman -- Rose? Roslyn? Went callous and swallowed. “She left it before she and the Inquisitor le--”

“No...” Cassandra muttered in an almost growling sound as she ripped the paper from the knife and spread it flat. She was right, there was little to give in the shorthand writing with blotches of ink and scratch marks. It was written with little time to waste. The last phrase about the knife, though, might as well have taken the blasted thing and struck her in the heart. 

Her gut sank along with her preconceived notions of how it was all supposed to go. “Why did they leave? Do the Advisors know?”

“Aye,” the warrior nodded, and her hands went to join together behind her back. “The Spymaster is overseeing it. She has Veronica with her, but otherwise they are to maintain secrecy.”

No guards, no security detail, no reinforcements? No one...no one else who would defend her.

“And…” her voice caught, and she was quick to swallow it down, “and where is she going?”

A pregnant pause transpired before she frowned and replied. “Across the water.” The expression said it all, and provided the final blow for all of the weight of the unknown to come crashing. 

“Maker…” she was muttering again, but for no one else’s sake but her own. Every conversation between them flooded her behind her eyes: every statement of indignance the Inquisitor held for her home, the nonchalant way she wouldn’t linger on the topic of ‘home,’ the way her mouth crookedly smiled when she leaned over the wall at Griffon Wing Keep when she contemplated it…

Cassandra folded and clamped the note closed, her chin tucking against her puffed up chest. _Olivia._

“Seeker, if I may,” the friend posited, “Veronica can be trusted with few select capabilities, but one of them is making sure to stay the course. She will keep the Inquisitor safe, if for nothing else than to deny trouble.”

Hmph. Comforting, but in a limited way. Cassandra had to deal with enough of Veronica’s behavior to hold her own opinions. She wasn’t altogether an incompetent person, and a promotion to Leliana’s Ravens spoke to that. But she was also less demonstrably loyal to the Inquisitor as a friend than the others had been. Trevelyan had redefined obnoxious, but she was faithful. Maddened about it, really. What would Veronica have to lose if she lost...if she lost her?

As Cassandra slid the knife between her back and her belt to join her own blade, the air in her lungs only sunk in so deep. But it would have to be enough. 

“Do we know if the Inquisitor is well?”

The soldier shook her head, and Cassandra sighed before her second inquiry: “Is anyone else to follow them?”

Once again, a negation, and the woman looked down at the tiled floor as if even she was disappointed with her answers. “Not until they reconnect in three days, as per the note. For now, we are supposed to vacate Halamshiral as quickly as possible and give no hint as to her whereabouts. If you are alright with this, Seeker, I must go and attend to my men.”

Cassandra could have said thank you, or good job, or something...kind. That would have probably been altruistic and smart. Though, all she could afford was a nod. Refreshingly, the soldier did not pine for anything else before leaving. 

Leaving Halamshiral would be difficult, especially if it meant covering the Inquisitor’s bloody tracks. Had the Ambassador really signed off on such a venture? If they ran, surely something would follow after them, and that something may or may not have to be resolved via politics. The mess hadn’t even been cleaned up and already the Inquisition was bent on self-preservation like some faction of the Game. It was never supposed to be like this. It was never supposed to get this far. 

Could she have forgiven the Inquisitor for her mistakes? Likely. But could she forgive her for leaving? 

A lonesome hand reached underneath the rim of her collar to take hold of the necklace she had managed to keep for this long as a testament for a person and a promise she had held so close. Her teeth bit down on the rim of her mouth as a replenished animus surged on her tongue. With a subtle but incisive pull, Cassandra snapped the chain in two, and let that be the final sound of her sorrow. 

There was work to be done. 

\--

A copied report of orders handed down from Commander Cullen to the present Officers:

Secure everything before we move on. The Ambassador has secured lodgings to the east, where we will arrive in a day’s time. Reinforcements will remain there on standby while the rest of us will move on to the mountains.

A note passed between Ambassador Montilyet to Leliana, kept without burning for unknown reasons:

Leliana -- watch over the Seeker, if you please. She seems to have her own designs on withdrawing from the Winter Palace. My opinion would be not to detail her any further on the Inquisitor’s location until further notice. 

\--

_The day after the Winter Palace Ball, somewhere on the waters of the Amaranthine --_

The swarthy sailor was a pain in the sweaty ass to do business with, but there was no choice. She had to get them on the boat or risk waiting longer, like sitting ducks on the shore waiting for hunters to pick them off. It took a bit more eyelash-fluttering and another chunk of her sack of coins to have them be off and away from the dreaded pit of despair that was Halamshiral. While they were on the water she could delude herself into thinking they were heading east, towards more bearable places with better people. Better food, too -- Maker, so much better. Yet, as they charted across rather than along, Veronica used every pitiful scrap of class she had to play it cool.

When she needed a distraction from the creeping anguish, for better or worse, she had someone for that. 

When the sun began to rise, Olivia had gotten herself out of the bunk they had shared -- feet cuddling faces, just like old runaway times -- and wandered out to the ship deck to watch the horizon. Wrapped up in blankets and wearing some shapeless robes Veronica pawned of someone by the docks, she was little more than a mound of depressingly-dark linen. It had only made the circles under her bronze eyes and the icy look of her lips and hands worse. So much so, even Veronica couldn’t stare for long without feeling a hint of pain. 

And she had stood there, and stood, and stood some more. Hours passed. The sun had risen and gotten used to its post up in that sky, and yet there she was. She had done similar rituals way back in the day, but she was always grossly girly about it. Dancing and frolicking, or ‘basking’ as she would call it. Now she was at attention like she was begging the heat from above to scorch her down into ash. 

When their few belongings were packed up again, Veronica took the chance to come up for air and to check on her -- whatever that was supposed to entail. It was rarely her job to do such things. The wood beneath her boots was loud and terrible on exhausted ears. It also provided no discretion for her approach. 

“Liv.” 

The figure did not turn or shake. A breeze picked up, and a single strand of tangled and curly blonde slipped out from the scarf draped over her head. 

“Liv,” she repeated, scuffing her shoes to an unimpressed stop. “Are you not about to collapse from the heat?” A faulty question. It wasn’t that hot out. In fact, storm clouds lingered on the jagged land lining the horizon. Their winds had been both propelling and chilling them even with the sun rising into midday.

Still, Olivia was a stature. Staring like she was bringing them closer to land with the power of her two eyes and shut mouth. A less compassionate soul would find this a blessing for a traveling companion. For Veronica, though, it was like hoping a baby would cry just to prove it was alive and kicking. 

For a third try, she crossed her arms. “Liv. Come the fuck on.”

“Shh,” she finally said, a hoarseness to her tone. “You are ruining it.”  


“Gah! Ruining what?!” 

Olivia rolled her shoulders, the blanket sliding tighter around her skinny body. “You are ruining the view with your vulgarity.”

Veronica’s jaw dropped, and she quickly rolled it to the side with tired hostility. The very audacity to...ragh, fuck it. “At least I am acting like a person and not a fucking piece of shipyard equipment. You should volunteer to hold up one of the masts if you stay up here. The men would be so happy to--”

Olivia’s chin turned to the side, out from the opaqueness of the garment and into the sunlight. “Would you stop harassing me?” 

Veronica choked back her rallying sarcasm just enough to take a gander at her. Good, she was moving. When prodded, she talked back. A lot of prodding, but still. Some parts of her were surviving this. It was better than having to carry her, like she did out of the palace, while she griped and whined about it all. ‘Veronica, my people need me!’ and ‘I can’t leave, I am needed’ every other breath. The woman couldn’t throw a punch and land it on the long-side of a boulder but she could complain about needing to sit and take whatever horrible punishment she was going to get for being the bad princess at the party. Figures. 

Kicking at the grime and gravel on the planks, Veronica’s pity for her had fast dissipated. Again. Sharing a cot which was a sack of soft potatoes mounted on some crates would do that to a person. 

“Well.” She grunted, and pulled hair out of her eyes that stuck with sweat and salted air. “Fine. Boil yourself out here.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“No, but I imagine several people would have objections.”

Olivia’s shoulders went back again, and a ragged breath escaped her. Loud enough to hear against the wind. “I doubt that holds, now.”

There could only be so many minutes spent arguing as to the finer details of this grand escape. Whether or not it was an ejection from the Palace, or the Inquisition, or the waking world itself was one of those things that was better debated on land. On land, with wine, and with all Fereldans present exempted. 

“Just...make sure you drink something. I don’t care what, have it be your own piss. But I won’t be carrying you into the candied Capitol after carrying you out of the…” Veronica bit her lip and exhaled, eyeing the view from either side of her. The ship was quietly manned, but not enough for her to talk so liberally. 

“I will be fine. Go mind something else.”

“What else is there for me to mind?” Veronica came closer, but measured her distance. “You forget why I’m here. Is your...how is your...I mean, is it back yet?"

A pause, while the breeze grew loud in their ears and harsh against their faces. Out the corner of her eye, she watched as Olivia hugged herself even tighter, indicating that she could feel at least some sort of difference for the world around her. She did not look away, though. Petite little thing, but brave against the wind. It made Veronica soften through her chest, enough for her to lose a couple inches of overbearing height on her. 

“Hey. You...okay?”

Olivia’s eyes fluttered, but her mouth stayed flat with the floor. 

“...Or...you know, I could just take that ba--”

“I said I am fine, Veronica.” Her alternated her arms in their crossed and bundled shape. “Why do you care? You won’t even tell me why it is were are traveling to Val Royeaux of all places. I thought when you said we were escaping to safety, we would be going back to...to a different place.”

Well, that hurt -- unexpectedly, but truthfully. Rather than dwell, she continued to stand in line with her and act like the water was enthralling in between sneaking a look at her. 

“We should be there tonight.”

“We will be there tomorrow, most likely.”

Veronica fidgeted. “O-oh?”

“Yes.” Olivia sighed through her nose. “It is spring. There are storms, and it will slow us down.”

 _Alright then._ Veronica chomped on her lip and raised a brow. Apparently Olivia had seen the display, for she scoffed pitifully and leaned away. 

“I am not wrong.”

“I know you are not. I would not blame you if you were…”

“Were what?”

“Being…”

Olivia grew bold and eyed her, and the act caused her to forget her sentence. Veronica frowned and shrugged with indifference. “Being...a way.”

“You mean an ass. And you would blame me. You always have, at every point.”

Shit. “...Maybe.”

They both looked away awkwardly towards the Amaranthine. It was a prolonged and embarrassing sensation, before at long last Olivia decided to kill it. 

“Last Spring we sailed to the...to the Capitol. That is how I recall.” Her tone was low, depleting almost as they went on. Her eyes were flickering again as if searching for something, or someone, in the distance. 

“Oh.”

“Mm. It was the quickest way, despite the weather. Trust me, there was...great debate on the subject.”

“I would assume so.”

Olivia’s chin lowered as she moved, finally, away from the rail. Her shoulders slouched as she turned away, back towards her company. 

“I am tired, and want no more conversation. I will come to you when we are in sight of the port.” She walked off towards the front, steps sounding heavy and languishing as she did so, even without shoes. The blasted woman couldn’t wear shoes unless they were dancing heels, apparently. 

There was nothing intriguing about their surroundings anymore. Veronica suspected there was little to it to begin with, even for her friend who seemed so enamored. Maybe she had been looking out elsewhere, into visions of her own plagued mind. Maybe the sunrise was just a way to illuminate the places she was searching for. Whatever, or wherever, she wanted to go, her physical form was heading for one place and one place only. They both were. 

It was funny in a way. Two Mages accomplishing a journey in the daylight, and their thoughts were on anything but the newfound freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiatus is over, lads!
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your patience and understanding while I've been handling life. I am now successfully moved for grad school and settled in, which means writing projects will recommence (though not in the same schedule as I will most likely be trying to juggle school work as well, but, hey!). I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you and love and light.


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